AT   LOS  ANGELES 


a 


THE  QUEEN'S  TWIN 

AT  ER  STORIES 


>RNE 


JEWETT 


AND   NEW   YORK 
.;N  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


RIGHT,   ,890  AND  IS99(  By  SARAH 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


?s 


To 
SUSAN  BURLEY  CABOT 


.>;.      :  . 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 
THE  QUEEN'S  TWIN 1 

WHERE  's  NORA 38 

BOLD  WORDS  AT  THE  BRIDGE        ...  .83 

MARTHA'S  LADY 100 

THE  COON  DOG        .......  135 

AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT 160 

THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THANKSGIVING       .        .  .  188 

BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT 198 


THE  QUEEN'S  TWIN. 


THE  coast  of  Maine  was  in  former  years 
brought  so  near  to  foreign  shores  by  its 
busy  fleet  of  ships  that  among  the  older 
men  and  women  one  still  finds  a  surprising 
proportion  of  travelers.  Each  seaward- 
stretching  headland  with  its  high -set 
houses,  each  island  of  a  single  farm,  has 
sent  its  spies  to  view  many  a  Land  of  Esh- 
col ;  one  may  see  plain,  contented  old  faces 
at  the  windows,  whose  eyes  have  looked  at 
far-away  ports  and  known  the  splendors  of 
the  Eastern  world.  They  shame  the  easy 
voyager  of  the  North  Atlantic  and  the  Med 
iterranean  ;  they  have  rounded  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope  and  braved  the  angry  seas  of 
Cape  Horn  in  small  wooden  ships  ;  they  have 
brought  up  their  hardy  boys  and  girls  on 
narrow  decks  ;  they  were  among  the  last  of 
the  Northmen's  children  to  go  adventuring 
to  unknown  shores.  More  than  this  one 


2  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

cannot  give  to  a  young  State  for  its  enlight 
enment  ;  the  sea  captains  and  the  captains' 
wives  of  Maine  knew  something  of  the  wide 
world,  and  never  mistook  their  native  par 
ishes  for  the  whole  instead  of  a  part  thereof ; 
they  knew  not  only  Thomaston  and  Castine 
and  Portland,  but  London  and  Bristol  and 
Bordeaux,  and  the  strange-mannered  har 
bors  of  the  China  Sea. 

One  September  day,  when  I  was  nearly  at 
the  end  of  a  summer  spent  in  a  village  called 
Dunnet  Landing,  on  the  Maine  coast,  my 
friend  Mrs.  Todd,  in  whose  house  I  lived, 
came  home  from  a  long,  solitary  stroll  in  the 
wild  pastures,  with  an  eager  look  as  if  she 
were  just  starting  on  a  hopeful  quest  instead 
of  returning.  She  brought  a  little  basket 
with  blackberries  enough  for  supper,  and 
held  it  towards  me  so  that  I  could  see  that 
there  were  also  some  late  and  surprising 
raspberries  sprinkled  on  top,  but  she  made 
no  comment  upon  her  wayfaring.  I  could 
tell  plainly  that  she  had  something  very  im 
portant  to  say. 

"  You  have  n't  brought  home  a  leaf  of 
anything,"  I  ventured  to  this  practiced  herb- 
gatherer.  "  You  were  saying  yesterday  that 
the  witch  hazel  might  be  in  bloom." 


THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN.  3 

"  I  dare  say,  dear,"  she  answered  in  a 
lofty  manner ;  "  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  it  was 
n't;  I  ain't  much  concerned  either  way 
'bout  the  facts  o'  witch  hazel.  Truth  is, 
I  've  been  off  visitin'  ;  there 's  an  old  In 
dian  footpath  leadin'  over  towards  the  Back 
Shore  through  the  great  heron  swamp  that 
anybody  can't  travel  over  all  summer.  You 
have  to  seize  your  time  some  day  just  now, 
while  the  low  ground 's  summer-dried  as  it 
is  to-day,  and  before  the  fall  rains  set  in.  I 
never  thought  of  it  till  I  was  out  o'  sight  o' 
home,  and  I  says  to  myself,  *  To-day  's  the 
day,  certain ! '  and  stepped  along  smart  as  I 
could.  Yes,  I  've  been  visitin'.  I  did  get 
into  one  spot  that  was  wet  underfoot  before 
I  noticed  ;  you  wait  till  I  get  me  a  pair  o' 
dry  woolen  stockings,  in  case  of  cold,  and 
I  '11  come  an'  tell  ye." 

Mrs.  Todd  disappeared.  I  could  see  that 
something  had  deeply  interested  her.  She 
might  have  fallen  in  with  either  the  sea-ser 
pent  or  the  lost  tribes  of  Israel,  such  was  her 
air  of  mystery  and  satisfaction.  She  had  been 
away  since  just  before  mid-morning,  and  as 
I  sat  waiting  by  my  window  I  saw  the  last 
red  glow  of  autumn  sunshine  flare  along  the 
gray  rocks  of  the  shore  and  leave  them  cold 


4  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

again,  and  touch  the  far  sails  of  some  coast 
wise  schooners  so  that  they  stood  like  golden 
houses  on  the  sea. 

I  was  left  to  wonder  longer  than  I  liked. 
Mrs.  Todd  was  making  an  evening  fire  and 
putting  things  in  train  for  supper ;  presently 
she  returned,  still  looking  warm  and  cheerful 
after  her  long  walk. 

"  There  's  a  beautiful  view  from  a  hill 
over  where  I  've  been,"  she  told  me  ;  "  yes, 
there  's  a  beautiful  prospect  of  land  and  sea. 
You  would  n't  discern  the  hill  from  any  dis 
tance,  but  't  is  the  pretty  situation  of  it  that 
counts.  I  sat  there  a  long  spell,  and  I  did 
wish  for  you.  No,  I  did  n't  know  a  word 
about  goin'  when  I  set  out  this  morning  "  (as 
if  I  had  openly  reproached  her !)  ;  "I  only 
felt  one  o'  them  travelin'  fits  comin'  on,  an' 
I  ketched  up  my  little  basket;  I  didn't 
know  but  I  might  turn  and  come  back  time 
for  dinner.  I  thought  it  wise  to  set  out  your 
luncheon  for  you  in  case  I  did  n't.  Hope 
you  had  all  you  wanted ;  yes,  I  hope  you 
had  enough." 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  said  I.  My  landlady 
was  always  peculiarly  bountiful  in  her  sup 
plies  when  she  left  me  to  fare  for  myself,  as 
if  she  made  a  sort  of  peace-offering  or  affec 
tionate  apology. 


THE    QUEEN'S    TWIN.  5 

"  You  know  that  hill  with  the  old  house 
right  on  top,  over  beyond  the  heron  swamp  ? 
You  '11  excuse  me  for  explaining"  Mrs.  Todd 
began,  "  but  you  ain't  so  apt  to  strike  inland 
as  you  be  to  go  right  along  shore.  You  know 
that  hill ;  there  's  a  path  leadin'  right  over  to 
it  that  you  have  to  look  sharp  to  find  nowa 
days  ;  it  belonged  to  the  up-country  Indians 
when  they  had  to  make  a  carry  to  the  land 
ing  here  to  get  to  the  out'  islands.  I  've 
heard  the  old  folks  say  that  there  used  to 
be  a  place  across  a  ledge  where  they  'd  worn 
a  deep  track  with  their  moccasin  feet,  but 
I  never  could  find  it.  'T  is  so  overgrown 
in  some  places  that  you  keep  losin'  the  path 
in  the  bushes  and  findin'  it  as  you  can  ;  but 
it  runs  pretty  straight  considerin'  the  lay  o' 
the  land,  and  I  keep  my  eye  on  the  sun  and 
the  moss  that  grows  one  side  o'  the  tree 
trunks.  Some  brook 's  been  choked  up  and 
the  swamp 's  bigger  than  it  used  to  be.  Yes ; 
I  did  get  in  deep  enough,  one  place !  " 

I  showed  the  solicitude  that  I  felt.  Mrs. 
Todd  was  no  longer  young,  and  in  spite  of 
her  strong,  great  frame  and  spirited  be 
havior,  I  knew  that  certain  ills  were  apt  to 
seize  upon  her,  and  would  end  some  day  by 
leaving  her  lame  and  ailing. 


6  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

"  Don't  you  go  to  worryin'  about  me," 
she  insisted,  "  settin'  still's  the  only  way 
the  Evil  One  '11  ever  get  the  upper  hand  o' 
me.  Keep  me  movin'  enough,  an'  I  'm 
twenty  year  old  summer  an'  winter  both. 
I  don't  know  why  't  is,  but  I  've  never  hap 
pened  to  mention  the  one  I  've  been  to  see. 
I  don't  know  why  I  never  happened  to  speak 
the  name  of  Abby  Martin,  for  I  often  give 
her  a  thought,  but  't  is  a  dreadful  out-o'-the- 
way  place  where  she  lives,  and  I  have  n't 
seen  her  myself  for  three  or  four  years. 
She's  a  real  good  interesting  woman,  and 
we  're  well  acquainted ;  she  's  nigher  mo 
ther's  age  than  mine,  but  she  's  very  young 
feeling.  She  made  me  a  nice  cup  o'  tea, 
and  I  don't  know  but  I  should  have  stopped 
all  night  if  I  could  have  got  word  to  you 
not  to  worry." 

Then  there  was  a  serious  silence  before 
Mrs.  Todd  spoke  again  to  make  a  formal 
announcement. 

"She  is  the  Queen's  Twin,"  and  Mrs. 
Todd  looked  steadily  to  see  how  I  might 
bear  the  great  surprise. 

"The  Queen's  Twin?"  I  repeated. 

"  Yes,  she  's  come  to  feel  a  real  interest 
in  the  Queen,  and  anybody  can  see  how 


THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN.  7 

natural  't  is.  They  were  born  the  very  same 
day,  and  you  would  be  astonished  to  see  what 
a  number  o'  other  things  have  corresponded. 
She  was  speaking  o'  some  o'  the  facts  to  me 
to-day,  an'  you  'd  think  she  'd  never  done  no 
thing  but  read  history.  I  see  how  earnest 
she  was  about  it  as  I  never  did  before.  I  've 
often  and  often  heard  her  allude  to  the  facts, 
but  now  she  's  got  to  be  old  and  the  hurry 's 
over  with  her  work,  she  's  come  to  live  a 
good  deal  in  her  thoughts,  as  folks  often  do, 
and  I  tell  you  't  is  a  sight  o'  company  for 
her.  If  you  want  to  hear  about  Queen  Vic 
toria,  why  Mis'  Abby  Martin  '11  tell  you 
everything.  And  the  prospect  from  that 
hill  I  spoke  of  is  as  beautiful  as  anything  in 
this  world  ;  't  is  worth  while  your  goin'  over 
to  see  her  just  for  that." 

"  When  can  you  go  again  ?  "  I  demanded 
eagerly. 

"  I  should  say  to-morrow,"  answered  Mrs. 
Todd ;  "  yes,  I  should  say  to-morrow ;  but  I 
expect  'twould  be  better  to  take  one  day 
to  rest,  in  between.  I  considered  that  ques 
tion  as  I  was  comin'  home,  but  I  hurried  so 
that  there  wa'n't  much  time  to  think.  It 's 
a  dreadful  long  way  to  go  with  a  horse  ;  you 
have  to  go  'most  as  far  as  the  old  Bowden 


8  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

place  an'  turn  off  to  the  left,  a  master  long, 
rough  road,  and  then  you  have  to  turn  right 
round  as  soon  as  you  get  there  if  you  mean 
to  get  home  before  nine  o'clock  at  night. 
But  to  strike  across  country  from  here, 
there 's  plenty  o'  time  in  the  shortest  day, 
and  you  can  have  a  good  hour  or  two's  visit 
beside ;  't  ain't  but  a  very  few  miles,  and 
it's  pretty  all  the  way  along.  There  used 
to  be  a  few  good  families  over  there,  but 
they  've  died  and  scattered,  so  now  she  's 
far  from  neighbors.  There,  she  really  cried, 
she  was  so  glad  to  see  anybody  comin'. 
You  '11  be  amused  to  hear  her  talk  about 
the  Queen,  but  I  thought  twice  or  three 
times  as  I  set  there  't  was  about  all  the  com 
pany  she  'd  got." 

"  Could  we  go  day  after  to-morrow  ?  "  I 
asked  eagerly. 

"  'T  would  suit  me  exactly,"  said  Mrs. 
Todd. 

IL 

One  can  never  be  so  certain  of  good  New 
England  weather  as  in  the  days  when  a  long 
easterly  storm  has  blown  away  the  warm 
late-summer  mists,  and  cooled  the  air  so 
that  however  bright  the  sunshine  is  by  day, 


THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN.  9 

the  nights  come  nearer  and  nearer  to  frosti- 
ness.  There  was  a  cold  freshness  in  the 
morning  air  when  Mrs.  Todd  and  I  locked 
the  house-door  behind  us  ;  we  took  the  key 
of  the  fields  into  our  own  hands  that  day, 
and  put  out  across  country  as  one  puts  out 
to  sea.  When  we  reached  the  top  of  the 
ridge  behind  the  town  it  seemed  as  if  we  had 
anxiously  passed  the  harbor  bar  and  were 
comfortably  in  open  sea  at  last. 

"  There,  now !  "  proclaimed  Mrs.  Todd, 
taking  a  long  breath,  "  now  I  do  feel  safe. 
It 's  just  the  weather  that 's  liable  to  bring 
somebody  to  spend  the  day ;  I  've  had  a 
feeling  of  Mis'  Elder  Caplin  from  North 
Point  bein'  close  upon  me  ever  since  I 
waked  up  this  mornin',  an'  I  did  n't  want 
to  be  hampered  with  our  present  plans. 
She 's  a  great  hand  to  visit ;  she  '11  be 
spendin'  the  day  somewhere  from  now  till 
Thanksgivin',  but  there  's  plenty  o'  places  at 
the  Landin'  where  she  goes,  an'  if  I  ain't 
there  she  '11  just  select  another.  I  thought 
mother  might  be  in,  too,  't  is  so  pleasant ; 
but  I  run  up  the  road  to  look  off  this 
mornin'  before  you  was  awake,  and  there 
was  no  sign  o'  the  boat.  If  they  hadn't 
started  by  that  time  they  would  n't  start, 


10  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

just  as  the  tide  is  now  ;  besides,  I  see  a  lot 
o'  mackerel-men  headin'  Green  Island  way, 
and  they  '11  detain  William.  No,  we  're  safe 
now,  an'  if  mother  should  be  comin'  in  to 
morrow  we  '11  have  all  this  to  tell  her.  She 
an'  Mis'  Abby  Martin 's  very  old  friends." 

We  were  walking  down  the  long  pasture 
slopes  towards  the  dark  woods  and  thickets 
of  the  low  ground.  They  stretched  away 
northward  like  an  unbroken  wilderness ;  the 
early  mists  still  dulled  much  of  the  color 
and  made  the  uplands  beyond  look  like  a 
very  far-off  country. 

"It  ain't  so  far  as  it  looks  from  here," 
said  my  companion  reassuringly,  "  but  we  've 
got  no  time  to  spare  either,"  and  she  hurried 
on,  leading  the  way  with  a  fine  sort  of  spirit 
in  her  step ;  and  presently  we  struck  into 
the  old  Indian  footpath,  which  could  be 
plainly  seen  across  the  long-unploughed  turf 
of  the  pastures,  and  followed  it  among  the 
thick,  low -growing  spruces.  There  the 
ground  was  smooth  and  brown  under  foot, 
and  the  thin-stemmed  trees  held  a  dark  and 
shadowy  roof  overhead.  We  walked  a  long 
way  without  speaking ;  sometimes  we  had  to 
push  aside  the  branches,  and  sometimes  we 
walked  in  a  broad  aisle  where  the  trees  were 


THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN.  11 

larger.  It  was  a  solitary  wood,  birdless  and 
beastless ;  there  was  not  even  a  rabbit  to  be 
seen,  or  a  .  crow  high  in  air  to  break  the 
silence. 

"  I  don't  believe  the  Queen  ever  saw  such 
a  lonesome  trail  as  this,"  said  Mrs.  Todd,  as 
if  she  followed  the  thoughts  that  were  in 
my  mind.  Our  visit  to  Mrs.  Abby  Martin 
seemed  in  some  strange  way  to  concern  the 
high  affairs  of  royalty.  I  had  just  been 
thinking  of  English  landscapes,  and  of  the 
solemn  hills  of  Scotland  with  their  lonely 
cottages  and  stone-walled  sheepfolds,  and 
the  wandering  flocks  on  high  cloudy  pas 
tures.  I  had  often  been  struck  by  the  quick 
interest  and  familiar  allusion  to  certain 
members  of  the  royal  house  which  one 
found  in  distant  neighborhoods  of  New 
England ;  whether  some  old  instincts  of 
personal  loyalty  have  survived  all  changes 
of  time  and  national  vicissitudes,  or  whether 
it  is  only  that  the  Queen's  own  character 
and  disposition  have  won  friends  for  her  so 
far  away,  it  is  impossible  to  tell.  But  to 
hear  of  a  twin  sister  was  the  most  surpris 
ing  proof  of  intimacy  of  all,  and  I  must  con 
fess  that  there  was  something  remarkably 
exciting  to  the  imagination  in  my  morning 


12  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

walk.  To  think  of  being  presented  at  Court 
in  the  usual  way  was  for  the  moment  quite 
commonplace. 

III. 

Mrs.  Todd  was  swinging  her  basket  to 
and  fro  like  a  schoolgirl  as  she  walked,  and 
at  this  moment  it  slipped  from  her  hand  and 
rolled  lightly  along  the  ground  as  if  there 
were  nothing  in  it.  I  picked  it  up  and  gave 
it  to  her,  whereupon  she  lifted  the  cover  and 
looked  in  with  anxiety. 

"  'T  is  only  a  few  little  things,  but  I  don't 
want  to  lose  'em,"  she  explained  humbly. 
"  'T  was  lucky  you  took  the  other  basket 
if  I  was  goin'  to  roll  it  round.  Mis'  Abby 
Martin  complained  o'  lacking  some  pretty 
pink  silk  to  finish  one  o'  her  little  frames, 
an'  I  thought  I  'd  carry  her  some,  and  I  had 
a  bunch  o'  gold  thread  that  had  been  in  a 
box  o'  mine  this  twenty  year.  I  never  was 
one  to  do  much  fancy  work,  but  we  're  all 
liable  to  be  swept  away  by  fashion.  And 
then  there's  a  small  packet  o'  very  choice 
herbs  that  I  gave  a  good  deal  of  attention 
to ;  they  '11  smarten  her  up  and  give  her 
the  best  of  appetites,  come  spring.  She 
was  tellin'  me  that  spring  weather  is  very 


THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN.  13 

wiltin'  an'  try  in'  to  her,  and  she  was  begin- 
nin'  to  dread  it  already.  Mother  's  just  the 
same  way ;  if  I  could  prevail  on  mother  to 
take  some  o'  these  remedies  in  good  season 
'twould  make  a  world  o'  difference,  but  she 
gets  all  down  hill  before  I  have  a  chance  to 
hear  of  it,  and  then  William  comes  in  to  tell 
me,  sighin'  and  bewailin',  how  feeble  mother 
is.  '  Why  can't  you  remember  'bout  them 
good  herbs  that  I  never  let  her  be  without  ? ' 
I  say  to  him  —  he  does  provoke  me  so  ;  and 
then  off  he  goes,  sulky  enough,  down  to  his 
boat.  Next  thing  I  know,  she  comes  in  to 
go  to  meetin',  wantin'  to  speak  to  everybody 
and  feelin'  like  a  girl.  Mis'  Martin's  case  is 
very  much  the  same ;  but  she 's  nobody  to 
watch  her.  William  's  kind  o'  slow-moulded  ; 
but  there,  any  William 's  better  than  none 
when  you  get  to  be  Mis'  Martin's  age." 

"  Had  n't  she  any  children  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Quite  a  number,"  replied  Mrs.  Todd 
grandly,  "but  some  are  gone  and  the  rest 
are  married  and  settled.  She  never  was  a 
great  hand  to  go  about  visitin'.  I  don't 
know  but  Mis'  Martin  might  be  called  a 
little  peculiar.  Even  her  own  folks  has  to 
make  company  of  her ;  she  never  slips  in 
and  lives  right  along  with  the  rest  as  if 


14  THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

't  was  at  home,  even  in  her  own  children's 
houses.  I  heard  one  o'  her  sons'  wives  say 
once  she  'd  much  rather  have  the  Queen  to 
spend  the  day  if  she  could  choose  between 
the  two,  but  I  never  thought  Abby  was  so 
difficult  as  that.  I  used  to  love  to  have  her 
come ;  she  may  have  been  sort  o'  ceremoni 
ous,  but  very  pleasant  and  sprightly  if  you 
had  sense  enough  to  treat  her  her  own  way. 
I  always  think  she  'd  know  just  how  to  live 
with  great  folks,  and  feel  easier  'long  of 
them  an'  their  ways.  Her  son's  wife 's  a 
great  driver  with  farm-work,  boards  a  great 
tableful  o'  men  in  hayin'  time,  an'  feels  right 
in  her  element.  I  don't  say  but  she  's  a 
good  woman  an'  smart,  but  sort  o'  rough. 
Anybody  that 's  gentle-mannered  an'  precise 
like  Mis'  Martin  would  be  a  sort  o'  restraint. 
"  There  's  all  sorts  o'  folks  in  the  country, 
same 's  there  is  in  the  city,"  concluded  Mrs. 
Todd  gravely,  and  I  as  gravely  agreed.  The 
thick  woods  were  behind  us  now,  and  the  sun 
was  shining  clear  overhead,  the  morning 
mists  were  gone,  and  a  faint  blue  haze  soft 
ened  the  distance ;  as  we  climbed  the  hill 
where  we  were  to  see  the  view,  it  seemed 
like  a  summer  day.  There  was  an  old  house 
on  the  height,  facing  southward,  —  a  mere 


THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN.  15 

forsaken  shell  of  an  old  house,  with  empty 
windows  that  looked  like  blind  eyes.  The 
frost-bitten  grass  grew  close  about  it  like 
brown  fur,  and  there  was  a  single  crooked 
bough  of  lilac  holding  its  green  leaves  close 
by  the  door. 

"  We  '11  just  have  a  good  piece  of  bread- 
an'-butter  now,"  said  the  commander  of  the 
expedition,  "  and  then  we  '11  hang  up  the  bas 
ket  on  some  peg  inside  the  house  out  o'  the 
way  o'  the  sheep,  and  have  a  han'some  enter 
tainment  as  we  're  comin'  back.  She  '11  be  all 
through  her  little  dinner  when  we  get  there, 
Mis'  Martin  will ;  but  she  '11  want  to  make 
us  some  tea,  an'  we  must  have  our  visit  an' 
be  startin'  back  pretty  soon  after  two.  I 
don't  want  to  cross  all  that  low  ground 
again  after  it 's  begun  to  grow  chilly.  An' 
it  looks  to  me  as  if  the  clouds  might  begin 
to  gather  late  in  the  afternoon." 

Before  us  lay  a  splendid  world  of  sea  and 
shore.  The  autumn  colors  already  bright 
ened  the  landscape  ;  and  here  and  there  at 
the  edge  of  a  dark  tract  of  pointed  firs  stood 
a  row  of  bright  swamp-maples  like  scarlet 
flowers.  The  blue  sea  and  the  great  tide 
inlets  were  untroubled  by  the  lightest 
winds. 


16  THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

"  Poor  land,  this  is !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Todd 
as  we  sat  down  to  rest  on  the  worn  door 
step.  "  I  've  known  three  good  hard-workin' 
families  that  come  here  full  o'  hope  an'  pride 
and  tried  to  make  something  o'  this  farm, 
but  it  beat  'em  all.  There 's  one  small  field 
that 's  excellent  for  potatoes  if  you  let  half 
of  it  rest  every  year  ;  but  the  land 's  always 
hungry.  Now,  you  see  them  little  peaked- 
topped  spruces  an'  fir  balsams  comin'  up 
over  the  hill  all  green  an'  hearty ;  they  've 
got  it  all  their  own  way !  Seems  sometimes 
as  if  wild  Natur'  got  jealous  over  a  certain 
spot,  and  wanted  to  do  just  as  she  'd  a  mind 
to.  You  '11  see  here ;  she  '11  do  her  own 
ploughin'  an'  harrowin'  with  frost  an'  wet, 
an'  plant  just  what  she  wants  and  wait  for 
her  own  crops.  Man  can't  do  nothin'  with 
it,  try  as  he  may.  I  tell  you  those  little 
trees  means  business !  " 

I  looked  down  the  slope,  and  felt  as  if  we 
ourselves  were  likely  to  be  surrounded  and 
overcome  if  we  lingered  too  long.  There 
was  a  vigor  of  growth,  a  persistence  and 
savagery  about  the  sturdy  little  trees  that 
put  weak  human  nature  at  complete  defi 
ance.  One  felt  a  sudden  pity  for  the  men 
and  women  who  had  been  worsted  after  a 


THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN.  17 

long  fight  in  that  lonely  place ;  one  felt  a 
sudden  fear  of  the  unconquerable,  immedi 
ate  forces  of  Nature,  as  in  the  irresistible 
moment  of  a  thunderstorm. 

"  I  can  recollect  the  time  when  folks  were 
shy  o'  these  woods  we  just  come  through," 
said  Mrs.  Todd  seriously.  "  The  men-folks 
themselves  never  'd  venture  into  'em  alone  ; 
if  their  cattle  got  strayed  they  'd  collect 
whoever  they  could  get,  and  start  off  all 
together.  They  said  a  person  was  liable  to 
get  bewildered  in  there  alone,  and  in  old 
times  folks  had  been  lost.  I  expect  there 
was  considerable  fear  left  over  from  the  old 
Indian  times,  and  the  poor  days  o'  witch 
craft  ;  anyway,  I  've  seen  bold  men  act  kind 
o'  timid.  Some  women  o'  the  Asa  Bowden 
family  went  out  one  afternoon  berryin'  when 
I  was  a  girl,  and  got  lost  and  was  out  all 
night ;  they  found  'em  middle  o'  the  mornin' 
next  day,  not  half  a  mile  from  home,  scared 
most  to  death,  an'  sayin'  they'd  heard 
wolves  and  other  beasts  sufficient  for  a  car 
avan.  Poor  creatur's !  they  'd  strayed  at 
last  into  a  kind  of  low  place  amongst  some 
alders,  an'  one  of  'em  was  so  overset  she 
never  got  over  it,  an'  went  off  in  a  sort  o' 
slow  decline.  'T  was  like  them  victims  that 


18  THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

drowns  in  a  foot  o'  water ;  but  their  minds 
did  suffer  dreadful.  Some  folks  is  born 
afraid  of  the  woods  and  all  wild  places,  but 
I  must  say  they  've  always  been  like  home 
to  me." 

I  glanced  at  the  resolute,  confident  face 
of  my  companion.  Life  was  very  strong  in 
her,  as  if  some  force  of  Nature  were  person 
ified  in  this  simple-hearted  woman  and  gave 
her  cousinship  to  the  ancient  deities.  She 
might  have  walked  the  primeval  fields  of 
Sicily;  her  strong  gingham  skirts  might  at 
that  very  moment  bend  the  slender  stalks 
of  asphodel  and  be  fragrant  with  trodden 
thyme,  instead  of  the  brown  wind-brushed 
grass  of  New  England  and  frost-bitten  gold- 
'enrod.  She  was  a  great  soul,  was  Mrs. 
Todd,  and  I  her  humble  follower,  as  we 
went  our  way  to  visit  the  Queen's  Twin, 
leaving  the  bright  view  of  the  sea  behind 
us,  and  descending  to  a  lower  country-side 
through  the  dry  pastures  and  fields. 

The  farms  all  wore  a  look  of  gathering 
age,  though  the  settlement  was,  after  all,  so 
young.  The  fences  were  already  fragile,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  the  first  impulse  of  agricul 
ture  had  soon  spent  itself  without  hope  of 
renewal.  The  better  houses  were  always 


THE    QUEEN'S    TWIN.  19 

those  that  had  some  hold  upon  the  riches 
of  the  sea  ;  a  house  that  could  not  harbor  a 
fishing-boat  in  some  neighboring  inlet  was 
far  from  being  sure  of  every-day  comforts. 
The  land  alone  was  not  enough  to  live  upon 
in  that  stony  region  ;  it  belonged  by  right  to 
the  forest,  and  to  the  forest  it  fast  returned. 
From  the  top  of  the  hill  where  we  had  been 
sitting  we  had  seen  prosperity  in  the  dim 
distance,  where  the  land  was  good  and  the 
sun  shone  upon  fat  barns,  and  where  warm- 
looking  houses  with  three  or  four  chimneys 
apiece  stood  high  on  their  solid  ridge  above 
the  bay. 

As  we  drew  nearer  to  Mrs.  Martin's  it 
was  sad  to  see  what  poor  bushy  fields,  what 
thin  and  empty  dwelling-places  had  been 
left  by  those  who  had  chosen  this  disap 
pointing  part  of  the  northern  country  for 
their  home.  We  crossed  the  last  field  and 
came  into  a  narrow  rain-washed  road,  and 
Mrs.  Todd  looked  eager  and  expectant  and 
said  that  we  were  almost  at  our  journey's 
end.  "  I  do  hope  Mis'  Martin  '11  ask  you 
into  her  best  room  where  she  keeps  all  the 
Queen's  pictures.  Yes,  I  think  likely  she 
will  ask  you ;  but  't  ain't  everybody  she 
deems  worthy  to  visit  'em,  I  can  tell  you !  " 


20  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

said  Mrs.  Todd  warningly.  "She's  been 
collectin'  'em  an'  cuttin'  'em  out  o'  news- 
papers  an'  magazines  time  out  o'  mind,  and 
if  she  heard  of  anybody  sailin'  for  an  Eng 
lish  port  she  'd  contrive  to  get  a  little  money 
to  'em  and  ask  to  have  the  last  likeness  there 
was.  She 's  most  covered  her  best-room  wall 
now ;  she  keeps  that  room  shut  up  sacred  as 
a  meetin'-house  !  '  I  won't  say  but  I  have 
my  favorites  amongst  'em,'  she  told  me 
t'  other  day,  '  but  they  're  all  beautiful  to 
me  as  they  can  be  ! '  And  she 's  made  some 
kind  o'  pretty  little  frames  for  'em  all  — 
you  know  there 's  always  a  new  fashion  o' 
frames  comin'  round  ;  first  't  was  shell-work, 
and  then  't  was  pine-cones,  and  bead-work  's 
had  its  day,  and  now  she  's  much  concerned 
with  perforated  cardboard  worked  with  silk. 
I  tell  you  that  best  room 's  a  sight  to  see ! 
But  you  must  n't  look  for  anything  elegant," 
continued  Mrs.  Todd,  after  a  moment's  re» 
flection.  "Mis'  Martin's  always  been  in 
very  poor,  strugglin'  circumstances.  She 
tad  ambition  for  her  children,  though  they 
took  right  after  their  father  an'  had  little 
for  themselves ;  she  wa'n't  over  an'  above 
well  married,  however  kind  she  may  see  fit 
to  speak.  She 's  been  patient  an'  hard- 


THE    QUEEN'S    TWIN.  21 

workin'  all  her  life,  and  always  high  above 
makin'  mean  complaints  of  other  folks.  1 
expect  all  this  business  about  the  Queen  has 
buoyed  her  over  many  a  shoal  place  in  life. 
Yes,  you  might  say  that  Abby  'd  been  a 
slave,  but  there  ain't  any  slave  but  has  some 
freedom." 

IV. 

Presently  I  saw  a  low  gray  house  stand 
ing  on  a  grassy  bank  close  to  the  road.  The 
door  was  at  the  side,  facing  us,  and  a  tangle 
of  suowberry  bushes  and  cinnamon  roses 
grew  to  the  level  of  the  window-sills.  On 
the  doorstep  stood  a  bent-shouldered,  little 
old  woman ;  there  was  an  air  of  welcome 
and  of  unmistakable  dignity  about  her. 

"  She  sees  us  coming,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Todd  in  an  excited  whisper.  "  There,  I 
told  her  I  might  be  over  this  way  again  if 
the  weather  held  good,  and  if  I  came  I  'd 
bring  you.  She  said  right  off  she  'd  take 
great  pleasure  in  havin'  a  visit  from  you ;  I 
was  surprised,  she 's  usually  so  retirin'." 

Even  this  reassurance  did  not  quell  a 
faint  apprehension  on  our  part ;  there  was 
something  distinctly  formal  in  the  occasion, 
and  one  felt  that  consciousness  of  inade- 


22  THE    QUEEN'S    TWIN. 

quacy  which  is  never  easy  for  the  humblest 
pride  to  bear.  On  the  way  I  had  torn  my 
dress  in  an  unexpected  encounter  with  a 
little  thornbush,  and  I  could  now  imagine 
how  it  felt  to  be  going  to  Court  and  forget 
ting  one's  feathers  or  her  Court  train. 

The  Queen's  Twin  was  oblivious  of  such 
trifles ;  she  stood  waiting  with  a  calm  look 
until  we  came  near  enough  to  take  her  kind 
hand.  .  She  was  a  beautiful  old  woman,  with 
clear  eyes  and  a  lovely  quietness  and  genu 
ineness  of  manner ;  there  was  not  a  trace  of 
anything  pretentious  about  her,  or  high- 
flown,  as  Mrs.  Todd  would  say  comprehen 
sively.  Beauty  in  age  is  rare  enough  in 
women  who  have  spent  their  lives  in  the 
hard  work  of  a  farmhouse  ;  but  autumn- 
like  and  withered  as  this  woman  may  have 
looked,  her  features  had  kept,  or  rather 
gained,  a  great  refinement.  She  led  us 
into  her  old  kitchen  and  gave  us  seats,  and 
took  one  of  the  little  straight-backed  chairs 
herself  and  sat  a  short  distance  away,  as  if 
she  were  giving  audience  to  an  ambassador. 
It  seemed  as  if  we  should  all  be  standing  ; 
you  could  not  help  feeling  that  the  habits  of 
her  life  were  more  ceremonious,  but  that  for 
the  moment  she  assumed  the  simplicities  of 
the  occasion. 


THE    QUEEN'S    TWIN.  23 

Mrs.  Todd  was  always  Mrs.  Todd,  too 
great  and  self-possessed  a  soul  for  any  occa 
sion  to  ruffle.  I  admired  her  calmness,  and 
presently  the  slow  current  of  neighborhood 
talk  carried  one  easily  along  ;  we  spoke  of 
the  weather  and  the  small  adventures  of  the 
way,  and  then,  as  if  I  were  after  all  not  a 
stranger,  our  hostess  turned  almost  affec 
tionately  to  speak  to  me. 

"  The  weather  will  be  growing  dark  in 
London  now.  I  expect  that  you  've  been  in 
London,  dear  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered.  "  Only  last 
year." 

"  It  is  a  great  many  years  since  I  was 
there,  along  in  the  forties,"  said  Mrs.  Mar 
tin.  "  'T  was  the  only  voyage  I  ever  made  ; 
most  of  my  neighbors  have  been  great  trav 
elers.  My  brother  was  master  of  a  vessel, 
and  his  wife  usually  sailed  with  him  ;  but 
that  year  she  had  a  young  child  more  frail 
than  the  others,  and  she  dreaded  the  care  of 
it  at  sea.  It  happened  that  my  brother  got 
a  chance  for  my  husband  to  go  as  super 
cargo,  being  a  good  accountant,  and  came 
one  day  to  urge  him  to  take  it ;  he  was  very 
ill-disposed  to  the  sea,  but  he  had  met  with 
losses,  and  I  saw  my  own  opportunity  and 


24  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

persuaded  them  both  to  let  me  go  too.  In 
those  days  they  did  n't  object  to  a  woman's 
being  aboard  to  wash  and  mend,  the  voy 
ages  were  sometimes  very  long.  And  that 
was  the  way  I  come  to  see  the  Queen." 

Mrs.  Martin  was  looking  straight  in  my 
eyes  to  see  if  I  showed  any  genuine  interest 
in  the  most  interesting  person  in  the  world. 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  glad  you  saw  the  Queen," 
I  hastened  to  say.  "  Mrs.  Todd  has  told  me 
that  you  and  she  were  born  the  very  same 
day." 

"  We  were  indeed,  dear !  "  said  Mrs.  Mar 
tin,  and  she  leaned  back  comfortably  and 
smiled  as  she  had  not  smiled  before.  Mrs. 
Todd  gave  a  satisfied  nod  and  glance,  as  if 
to  say  that  things  were  going  on  as  well  as 
possible  in  this  anxious  moment. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Martin  again,  drawing 
her  chair  a  little  nearer,  "  't  was  a  very 
remarkable  thing ;  we  were  born  the  same 
day,  and  at  exactly  the  same  hour,  after 
you  allowed  for  all  the  difference  in  time. 
My  father  figured  it  out  sea-fashion.  Her 
Royal  Majesty  and  I  opened  our  eyes  upon 
this  world  together ;  say  what  you  may,  't  is 
a  bond  between  us." 

Mrs.  Todd  assented  with  an  air  of  tri. 


THE    Q KEEN'S   TWIN.  25 

umpli,  and  untied  her  hat-strings  and  threw 
them  back  over  her  shoulders  with  a  gallant 
air. 

"  And  I  married  a  man  by  the  name  of 
Albert,  just  the  same  as  she  did,  and  all  by 
chance,  for  I  did  n't  get  the  news  that  she 
had  an  Albert  too  till  a  fortnight  afterward  ; 
news  was  slower  coming  then  than  it  is  now. 
My  first  baby  was  a  girl,  and  I  called  her 
Victoria  after  my  mate ;  but  the  next  one 
was  a  boy,  and  my  husband  wanted  the 
right  to  name  him,  and  took  his  own  name 
and  his  brother  Edward's,  and  pretty  soon 
I  saw  in  the  paper  that  the  little  Prince  o' 
Wales  had  been  christened  just  the  same. 
After  that  I  made  excuse  to  wait  till  I  knew 
what  she  'd  named  her  children.  I  did  n't 
want  to  break  the  chain,  so  I  had  an  Alfred, 
and  my  darling  Alice  that  I  lost  long  before 
she  lost  hers,  and  there  I  stopped.  If  I  'd 
only  had  a  dear  daughter  to  stay  at  home 
with  me,  same 's  her  youngest  one,  I  should 
have  been  so  thankful !  But  if  only  one  of 
us  could  have  a  little  Beatrice,  I  'm  glad 
't  was  the  Queen  ;  we  've  both  seen  trouble, 
but  she  's  had  the  most  care." 

I  asked  Mrs.  Martin  if  she  lived  alone  all 
the  year,  and  was  told  that  she  did  except 


26  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

for  a  visit  now  and  then  from  one  of  her 
grandchildren,  "  the  only  one  that  really 
likes  to  come  an'  stay  quiet  'long  o' 
grandma.  She  always  says  quick  as  she  's 
through  her  schoolin'  she's  goin'  to  live 
with  me  all  the  time,  but  she  's  very  pretty 
an'  has  taking  ways,"  said  Mrs.  Martin, 
looking  both  proud  and  wistful,  "  so  I  can 
tell  nothing  at  all  about  it !  Yes,  I  've  been 
alone  most  o'  the  time  since  my  Albert  was 
taken  away,  and  that 's  a  great  many  years ; 
he  had  a  long  time  o'  failing  and  sickness 
first."  (Mrs.  Todd's  foot  gave  an  impatient 
scuff  on  the  floor.)  "  An'  I  've  always  lived 
right  here.  I  ain't  like  the  Queen's  Ma 
jesty,  for  this  is  the  only  palace  I  've  got," 
said  the  dear  old  thing,  smiling  again. 
"  I  'm  glad  of  it  too,  I  don't  like  changing 
about,  an'  our  stations  in  life  are  set  very 
different.  I  don't  require  what  the  Queen 
does,  but  sometimes  I  've  thought  't  was  left 
to  me  to  do  the  plain  things  she  don't  have 
time  for.  I  expect  she 's  a  beautiful  house 
keeper,  nobody  could  n't  have  done  better  in 
her  high  place,  and  she  's  been  as  good  a 
mother  as  she  's  been  a  queen." 

"I  guess  she  has,  Abby,"   agreed  Mrs. 
Todd   instantly.     "  How   was   it   you   hap- 


THE    QUEEN'S    TWIN.  27 

pened  to  get  such  a  good  look  at  her?  I 
meant  to  ask  you  again  when  I  was  here 
t'  other  day." 

"  Our  ship  was  layin'  in  the  Thames, 
right  there  above  Wapping.  We  was  dis- 
chargin'  cargo,  and  under  orders  to  clear  as 
quick  as  we  could  for  Bordeaux  to  take  on 
an  excellent  freight  o'  French  goods,"  ex 
plained  Mrs.  Martin  eagerly.  "  I  heard  that 
the  Queen  was  goin'  to  a  great  review  of  her 
army,  and  would  drive  out  o'  her  Buckin'- 
ham  Palace  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  mornin', 
and  I  run  aft  to  Albert,  my  husband,  and 
brother  Horace  where  they  was  standin'  to 
gether  by  the  hatchway,  and  told  'em  they 
must  one  of  'em  take  me.  They  laughed,  I 
was  in  such  a  hurry,  and  said  they  could  n't 
go  ;  and  I  found  they  meant  it  and  got  sort 
of  impatient  when  I  began  to  talk,  and  I 
was  'most  broken-hearted ;  't  was  all  the 
reason  I  had  for  makin'  that  hard  voyage. 
Albert  could  n't  help  often  reproachin'  me, 
for  he  did  so  resent  the  sea,  an'  I  'd  known 
how  't  would  be  before  we  sailed  ;  but  I  'd 
minded  nothing  all  the  way  till  then,  and  I 
just  crep'  back  to  my  cabin  an'  begun  to 
cry.  They  was  disappointed  about  their 
ship's  cook,  an'  I  'd  cooked  for  fo'c's'le  an' 


28  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

cabin  myself  all  the  way  over ;  't  was  dread- 
f  ul  hard  work,  specially  in  rough  weather ; 
we  'd  had  head  winds  an'  a  six  weeks'  voy 
age.  They  'd  acted  sort  of  ashamed  o'  me 
when  I  pled  so  to  go  ashore,  an'  that  hurt 
my  feelin's  most  of  all.  But  Albert  come 
below  pretty  soon ;  I  'd  never  given  way  so 
in  my  life,  an'  he  begun  to  act  frightened, 
and  treated  me  gentle  just  as  he  did  when 
we  was  goin'  to  be  married,  an'  when  I  got 
over  Bobbin'  he  went  on  deck  and  saw  Hor 
ace  an'  talked  it  over  what  they  could  do; 
they  really  had  their  duty  to  the  vessel,  and 
couldn't  be  spared  that  day.  Horace  was 
real  good  when  he  understood  everything, 
and  he  come  an'  told  me  I  'd  more  than 
worked  my  passage  an'  was  goin'  to  do  just 
as  I  liked  now  we  was  in  port.  He  'd  en 
gaged  a  cook,  too,  that  was  comin'  aboard 
that  mornin',  and  he  was  goin'  to  send  the 
ship's  carpenter  with  me  —  a  nice  fellow 
from  up  Thomaston  way ;  he  'd  gone  to 
put  on  his  ashore  clothes  as  quick's  he 
could.  So  then  I  got  ready,  and  we  started 
off  in  the  small  boat  and  rowed  up  river.  I 
was  afraid  we  were  too  late,  but  the  tide  was 
setting  up  very  strong,  and  we  landed  an' 
left  the  boat  to  a  keeper,  and  I  run  all  the 


THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN.  29 

way  up  those  great  streets  and  across  a 
park.  'Twas  a  great  day,  with  sights  o' 
folks  everywhere,  but  't  was  just  as  if  they 
was  nothin'  but  wax  images  to  me.  I  kep' 
askin'  my  way  an'  runnin'  on,  with  the  car 
penter  comin'  after  as  best  he  could,  and 
just  as  I  worked  to  the  front  o'  the  crowd 
by  the  palace,  the  gates  was  flung  open  and 
out  she  came ;  all  prancin'  horses  and  shinin' 
gold,  and  in  a  beautiful  carriage  there  she 
sat ;  't  was  a  moment  o'  heaven  to  me.  I 
saw  her  plain,  and  she  looked  right  at  me 
so  pleasant  and  happy,  just  as  if  she  knew 
there  was  somethin'  different  between  us 
from  other  folks." 

There  was  a  moment  when  the  Queen's 
Twin  could  not  go  on  and  neither  of  her  lis 
teners  could  ask  a  question. 

"Prince  Albert  was  sitting  right  beside 
her  in  the  carriage,"  she  continued.  "  Oh, 
he  was  a  beautiful  man  !  Yes,  dear,  I  saw 
'em  both  together  just  as  I  see  you  now,  and 
then  she  was  gone  out  o'  sight  in  another 
minute,  and  the  common  crowd  was  all 
spread  over  the  place  pushin'  an'  cheerin'. 
'T  was  some  kind  o'  holiday,  an'  the  carpen 
ter  and  I  got  separated,  an'  then  I  found 
him  again  after  I  did  n't  think  I  should,  an' 


30  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

he  was  all  for  makin'  a  day  of  it,  and  goin' 
to  show  me  all  the  sights ;  he  'd  been  in 
London  before,  but  I  did  n't  want  nothin' 
else,  an'  we  went  back  through  the  streets 
down  to  the  waterside  an'  took  the  boat.  I 
remember  I  mended  an  old  coat  o'  my  Al 
bert's  as  good  as  I  could,  sittiu'  on  the 
quarter-deck  in  the  sun  all  that  afternoon, 
and  't  was  all  as  if  I  was  livin'  in  a  lovely 
dream.  I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it, 
but  there  has  n't  been  no  friend  I  've  felt 
so  near  to  me  ever  since." 

One  could  not  say  much  —  only  listen. 
Mrs.  Todd  put  in  a  discerning  question  now 
and  then,  and  Mrs.  Martin's  eyes  shone 
brighter  and  brighter  as  she  talked.  What 
a  lovely  gift  of  imagination  and  true  affec 
tion  was  in  this  fond  old  heart !  I  looked 
about  the  plain  New  England  kitchen,  with 
its  wood-smoked  walls  and  homely  braided 
rugs  on  the  worn  floor,  and  all  its  simple 
furnishings.  The  loud-ticking  clock  seemed 
to  encourage  us  to  speak  ;  at  the  other  side 
of  the  room  was  an  early  newspaper  portrait 
of  Her  Majesty  the  Queen  of  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland.  On  a  shelf  below  were  some 
flowers  in  a  little  glass  dish,  as  if  they  were 
put  before  a  shrine. 


THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN.  31 

"  If  I  could  have  had  more  to  read,  I 
should  have  known  'most  everything  about 
her,"  said  Mrs.  Martin  wistfully.  "  I  've 
made  the  most  of  what  I  did  have,  and 
thought  it  over  and  over  till  it  came  clear. 
I  sometimes  seem  to  have  her  all  my  own, 
as  if  we  'd  lived  right  together.  I  've  often 
walked  out  into  the  woods  alone  and  told 
her  what  my  troubles  was,  and  it  always 
seemed  as  if  she  told  me  't  was  all  right,  an' 
we  must  have  patience.  I  've  got  her  beau 
tiful  book  about  the  Highlands ;  't  was  dear 
Mis'  Todd  here  that  found  out  about  her 
printing  it  and  got  a  copy  for  me,  and  it 's 
been  a  treasure  to  my  heart,  just  as  if  't  was 
written  right  to  me.  I  always  read  it  Sun 
days  now,  for  my  Sunday  treat.  Before 
that  I  used  to  have  to  imagine  a  good  deal, 
but  when  I  come  to  read  her  book,  I  knew 
what  I  expected  was  all  true.  We  do  think 
alike  about  so  many  things,"  said  the  Queen's 
Twin  with  affectionate  certainty.  "  You  see, 
there  is  something  between  us,  being  born 
just  at  the  some  time  ;  't  is  what  they  call  a 
birthright.  She  's  had  great  tasks  put  upon 
her,  being  the  Queen,  an'  mine  has  been  the 
humble  lot ;  but  she 's  done  the  best  she 
could,  nobody  can  say  to  the  contrary,  and 


32  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

there  's  something  between  us  ;  she  's  been 
the  great  lesson  I  've  had  to  live  by.  She 's 
been  everything  to  me.  An'  when  she  had 
her  Jubilee,  oh,  how  my  heart  was  with 
her ! " 

"  There,  't  would  n't  play  the  part  in  her 
life  it  has  in  mine,"  said  Mrs.  Martin  gener 
ously,  in  answer  to  something  one  of  her 
listeners  had  said.  "  Sometimes  I  think- 
now  she's  older,  she  might  like  to  know 
about  us.  When  I  think  how  few  old 
friends  anybody  has  left  at  our  age,  I  sup 
pose  it  may  be  just  the  same  with  her  as  it 
is  with  me  ;  perhaps  she  would  like  to  know 
how  we  came  into  life  together.  But  I  've 
had  a  great  advantage  in  seeing  her,  an'  I 
can  always  fancy  her  goin'  on,  while  she 
don't  know  nothin'  yet  about  me,  except 
she  may  feel  my  love  stayin'  her  heart  some 
times  an'  not  know  just  where  it  comes  from. 
An'  I  dream  about  our  being  together  out 
in  some  pretty  fields,  young  as  ever  we  was, 
and  holdin'  hands  as  we  walk  along.  I  'd 
like  to  know  if  she  ever  has  that  dream  too. 
I  used  to  have  days  when  I  made  believe 
she  did  know,  an'  was  comin'  to  see  me," 
confessed  the  speaker  shyly,  with  a  little 
flush  on  her  cheeks ;  "  and  I  'd  plan  what 


THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN.  33 

I  could  have  nice  for  supper,  and  I  was  n't 
goin'  to  let  anybody  know  she  was  here 
havin'  a  good  rest,  except  I  'd  wish  you, 
Almira  Todd,  or  dear  Mis'  Blackett  would 
happen  in,  for  you  'd  know  just  how  to  talk 
with  her.  You  see,  she  likes  to  be  up  in 
Scotland,  right  out  in  the  wild  country,  bet 
ter  than  she  does  anywhere  else." 

"  I  'd  really  love  to  take  her  out  to  see 
mother  at  Green  Island,"  said  Mrs.  Todd 
with  a  sudden  impulse. 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  should  love  to  have  you," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Martin,  and  then  she  began 
to  speak  in  a  lower  tone.  "  One  day  I  got 
thinkin'  so  about  my  dear  Queen,"  she  said, 
"  an'  livin'  so  in  my  thoughts,  that  I  went  to 
work  an'  got  all  ready  for  her,  just  as  if  she 
was  really  comin'.  I  never  told  this  to  a 
livin'  soul  before,  but  I  feel  you  '11  under 
stand.  I  put  my  best  fine  sheets  and  blan 
kets  I  spun  an'  wove  myself  on  the  bed,  and 
I  picked  some  pretty  flowers  and  put  'em  all 
round  the  house,  an'  I  worked  as  hard  an' 
happy  as  I  could  all  day,  and  had  as  nice  a 
supper  ready  as  I  could  get,  sort  of  telling 
myself  a  story  all  the  time.  She  was  comin' 
an'  I  was  goin'  to  see  her  again,  an'  I  kep' 
it  up  until  nightfall ;  an'  when  I  see  the 


34  THE   QUEEN'S   TWIN. 

dark  an'  it  come  to  me  I  was  all  alone,  the 
dream  left  me,  an'  I  sat  down  on  the  door 
step  an'  felt  all  foolish  an'  tired.  An',  if 
you  '11  believe  it,  I  heard  steps  comin',  an' 
an  old  cousin  o'  mine  come  wanderin'  along, 
one  I  was  apt  to  be  shy  of.  She  was  n't  all 
there,  as  folks  used  to  say,  but  harmless 
enough  and  a  kind  of  poor  old  talking  body. 
And  I  went  right  to  meet  her  when  I  first 
heard  her  call,  'stead  o'  hidin'  as  I  some 
times  did,  an'  she  come  in  dreadful  willin', 
an'  we  sat  down  to  supper  together ;  't  was 
a  supper  I  should  have  had  no  heart  to  eat 
alone." 

"  I  don't  believe  she  ever  had  such  a  splen 
did  time  in  her  life  as  she  did  then.  I  heard 
her  tell  all  about  it  afterwards,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Todd  compassionately.  "  There,  now 
I  hear  all  this  it  seems  just  as  if  the  Queen 
might  have  known  and  could  n't  come  her 
self,  so  she  sent  that  poor  old  creatur'  that 
was  always  in  need !  " 

Mrs.  Martin  looked  timidly  at  Mrs.  Todd 
and  then  at  me.  "  'T  was  childish  o'  me  to 
go  an'  get  supper,"  she  confessed. 

"  I  guess  you  wa'n't  the  first  one  to  do 
that,"  said  Mrs.  Todd.  "No,  I  guess  you 
wa'n't  the  first  one  who  's  got  supper  that 


THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN.  35 

way,  Abby,"  and  then  for  a  moment  she 
could  say  no  more. 

Mrs.  Todd  and  Mrs.  Martin  had  moved 
their  chairs  a  little  so  that  they  faced  each 
other,  and  I,  at  one  side,  could  see  them 
both. 

"  No,  you  never  told  me  o'  that  before, 
Abby,"  said  Mrs.  Todd  gently.  "  Don't  it 
show  that  for  folks  that  have  any  fancy  in 
'em,  such  beautiful  dreams  is  the  real  part 
o'  life?  But  to  most  folks  the  common 
things  that  happens  outside  'em  is  all  in  all." 

Mrs.  Martin  did  not  appear  to  understand 
at  first,  strange  to  say,  when  the  secret  of 
her  heart  was  put  into  words ;  then  a  glow 
of  pleasure  and  comprehension  shone  upon 
her  face.  "  Why,  I  believe  you  're  right, 
Almira !  "  she  said,  and  turned  to  me. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  look  at  my  pic 
tures  of  the  Queen?"  she  asked,  and  we 
rose  and  went  into  the  best  room. 


V. 

The  mid -day  visit  seemed  very  short. 
September  hours  are  brief  to  match  the 
shortening  days.  The  great  subject  was 
dismissed  for  a  while  after  our  visit  to  the 


36  TEE   QUEEN'S  TWIN. 

Queen's  pictures,  and  my  companions  spoke 
much  of  lesser  persons  until  we  drank  the 
cup  of  tea  which  Mrs.  Todd  had  foreseen. 
I  happily  remembered  that  the  Queen  her 
self  is  said  to  like  a  proper  cup  of  tea,  and 
this  at  once  seemed  to  make  her  Majesty 
kindly  join  so  remote  and  reverent  a  com 
pany.  Mrs.  Martin's  thin  cheeks  took  on 
a  pretty  color  like  a  girl's.  "Somehow  I 
always  have  thought  of  her  when  I  made 
it  extra  good,"  she  said.  "  I  've  got  a  real 
china  cup  that  belonged  to  my  grandmother, 
and  I  believe  I  shall  call  it  hers  now." 

"  Why  don't  you  ?  "  responded  Mrs.  Todd 
warmly,  with  a  delightful  smile. 

Later  they  spoke  of  a  promised  visit 
which  was  to  be  made  in  the  Indian  sum 
mer'  to  the  Landing  and  Green  Island,  but 
I  observed  that  Mrs.  Todd  presented  the 
little  parcel  of  dried  herbs,  with  full  direc 
tions,  for  a  cure-all  in  the  spring,  as  if  there 
were  no  real  chance  of  their  meeting  again 
first.  As  we  looked  back  from  the  turn  of 
the  road  the  Queen's  Twin  was  still  stand 
ing  on  the  doorstep  watching  us  away,  and 
Mrs.  Todd  stopped,  and  stood  still  for  a 
moment  before  she  waved  her  hand  again. 

"There's   one   thing  certain,  dear,"  she 


THE    QUEEN'S   TWIN.  37 

said  to   me  with   great    discernment ;    "  it 
ain't  as  if  we  left  her  all  alone  !  " 

Then  we  set  out  upon  our  long  way  home 
over  the  hill,  where  we  lingered  in  the  after 
noon  sunshine,  and  through  the  dark  woods 
across  the  heron-swamp. 


WHERE'S  NOEA? 


"WHERE'S  Nora?" 

The  speaker  was  a  small,  serious-looking 
old  Irishman,  one  of  those  Patricks  who  are 
almost  never  called  Pat.  He  was  well- 
dressed  and  formal,  and  wore  an  air  of  dig 
nified  authority. 

"  I  don't  know  meself  where 's  Nora  then, 
so  I  don't,"  answered  his  companion.  "  The 
shild  would  n't  stop  for  a  sup  o'  breakfast 
before  she  'd  go  out  to  see  the  town,  an'  no 
body  's  seen  the  1'aste  smitch  of  her  since.  I 
might  sweep  the  streets  wit'  a  broom  and  I 
could  n't  find  her.'\ 

"  Maybe  she 's  strayed  beyand  and  gone 
losing  in  the  strange  place,"  suggested  Mr. 
Quin,  with  an  anxious  glance.  "  Did  n't 
none  o'  the  folks  go  wit'  her  ?  " 

"  How  would  annybody  be  goin'  an'  she 
up  an'  away  before  there  was  a  foot  out  o' 
bed  in  the  house  ?  "  answered  Mike  Duffy 
impatiently.  '"T  was  herself  that  caught 


WHERE  'S   NORA  f  39 

sight  of  Nora  stealin'  out  o'  the  door  like 
a  thief,  an'  meself  getting  me  best  sleep  at 
the  time.  Herself  had  to  sit  up  an'  laugh 
in  the  bed  and  be  plaguin'  me  wit'  her 
tarkin'.  *  Look  at  Nora ! '  says  she. 
*  Where 's  Nora  ? '  says  I,  wit'  a  great  start. 
I  thought  something  had  happened  the  poor 
shild.  '  Oh,  go  to  slape,  you  fool !  '  says 
Mary  Ann.  '  'T  is  only  four  o'clock,'  says 
she,  '  an'  that  grasshopper  greenhorn  can't 
wait  for  broad  day  till  she  go  out  an'  see  the 
whole  of  Amer iky.'  So  I  wint  off  to  sleep 
again ;  the  first  bell  was  biginnin'  on  the 
mill,  and  I  had  an  hour  an'  a  piece,  good,  to 
meself  after  that  before  Mary  Ann  come 
scoldin'.  I  don't  be  sleepin'  so  well  as  some 
folks  the  first  part  of  the  night." 

Mr.  Patrick  Quin  ignored  the  interest  of 
this  autobiographical  statement,  and  with  a 
contemptuous  shake  of  the  head  began  to 
feel  in  his  pocket  for  a  pipe.  Every  one 
knew  that  Mike  Duffy  was  a  person  much 
too  fond  of  his  ease,  and  that  all  the  credit 
of  their  prosperity  belonged  to  his  hard- 
worked  wife.  She  had  reared  a  family  of 
respectable  sons  and  daughters,  who  were 
all  settled  and  doing  well  for  themselves, 
and  now  she  was  helping  to  bring  out  some 


40  WHERE  '8  NORA  ? 

nephews  and  nieces  from  the  old  country. 
She  was  proud  to  have  been  born  a  Quin ; 
Patrick  Quin  was  her  brother  and  a  man  of 
consequence. 

"  'Deed,  I  'd  like  well  to  see  the  poor 
shild,"  said  Patrick.  "I'd  no  thought 
they  'd  land  before  the  day  or  to-morrow 
mornin',  or  I  'd  have  been  over  last  night. 
I  suppose  she  brought  all  the  news  from 
home  ?  " 

"  The  folks  is  all  weU,  thanks  be  to  God," 
proclaimed  Mr.  Duffy  solemnly.  "  'T  was 
late  when  she  come ;  't  was  on  the  quarter 
to  nine  she  got  here.  There  's  been  great 
deaths  after  the  winther  among  the  old  folks. 
Old  Peter  Murphy 's  gone,  she  says,  an'  his 
brother  that  lived  over  by  Ballycannon  died 
the  same  week  with  him,  and  Dan  Donahoe 
an'  Corny  Donahoe 's  lost  their  old  aunt  on 
the  twelfth  of  March,  that  gave  them  her 
farm  to  take  care  of  her  before  I  came  out. 
She  was  old  then,  too." 

"  Faix,  it  was  time  for  the  old  lady,  so  it 
was,"  said  Patrick  Quin,  with  affectionate 
interest.  "  She  'd  be  the  oldest  in  the  parish 
this  tin  years  past." 

"  Nora  said  't  was  a  fine  funeral ;  they  'd 
three  priests  to  her,  and  everything  of  the 


WHERE  'S  NORA  f  41 

best.  Nora  was  there  herself  and  all  our 
folks.  The  b'ys  was  very  proud  of  her  for 
being  so  old  and  respicted." 

"  Sure,  Mary  was  an  old  woman,  and  I 
first  coming  out,"  repeated  Patrick,  with 
feeling.  "  I  went  up  to  her  that  Monday 
night,  and  I  sailing  on  a  Wednesday,  an'  she 
gave  me  her  blessing  and  a  present  of  five 
shillings.  She  said  then  she'd  see  me  no 
more ;  't  was  poor  old  Mary  had  the  giving 
hand,  God  bless  her  and  save  her !  I  joked 
her  that  she  'd  soon  be  marrying  and  coming 
out  to  Ameriky  like  meself.  '  No,'  says 
she,  '  I  'm  too  old.  I  '11  die  here  where  I 
was  born  ;  this  old  farm  is  me  one  home  o' 
the  world,  and  I  '11  never  be  af  ther  1'avin'  it ; 
't  is  right  enough  for  you  young  folks  to  go,' 
says  she.  I  could  n't  get  my  mouth  open  to 
answer  her.  'T  was  meself  that  was  very 
homesick  in  me  inside,  coming  away  from 
the  old  place,  but  I  had  great  boldness  be 
fore  every  one.  'Twas  old  Mary  saw  the 
tears  in  me  eyes  then.  '  Don't  mind,  Patsy,' 
says  she  ;  '  if  you  don't  do  well  there,  come 
back  to  it  an'  I  '11  be  glad  to  take  your  folks 
in  till  you  '11  be  afther  getting  started  again.' 
She  had  n't  the  money  then  she  got  after 
ward  from  her  cousin  in  Dublin  ;  't  was  the 


42  WHERE  >S  NORA  f 

kind  heart  of  her  spoke,  an'  meself  being 
but  a  boy  that  was  young  to  maintain  him 
self,  let  alone  a  family.  Thanks  be  to  God, 
I  've  done  well,  afther  all,  but  for  me  crooked 
leg.  I  does  be  dr'amin'  of  going  home 
sometimes  ;  't  is  often  yet  I  wake  up  wit'  the 
smell  o'  the  wet  bushes  in  the  mornin'  when 
a  man  does  be  goin'  to  his  work  at  home." 

Mike  Duffy  looked  at  his  brother-in-law 
with  curiosity ;  the  two  men  were  sitting 
side  by  side  before  Mike's  house  on  a  bit  of 
green  bank  between  the  sidewalk  and  the 
road.  It  was  May,  and  the  dandelions  were 
blooming  all  about  them,  thick  in  the  grass. 
Patrick  Quin  reached  out  and  touched  one 
of  them  with  his  stick.  He  was  a  lame  man, 
and  had  worked  as  section  hand  for  the  rail 
road  for  many  years,  until  the  bad  accident 
which  forced  him  to  retire  on  one  of  the 
company's  rarely  given  pensions.  He  had 
prevented  a  great  disaster  on  the  road; 
those  who  knew  him  well  always  said  that 
his  position  had  never  been  equal  to  his 
ability,  but  the  men  who  stood  above  him 
and  the  men  who  were  below  him  held  Pat 
rick  Quin  at  exactly  the  same  estimate.  He 
had  limped  along  the  road  from  the  clean- 
looking  little  yellow  house  that  he  owned  not 


WHERE  >S  NORA  t          .  43 

far  away  on  the  river-bank,  and  his  mind 
was  upon  his  errand. 

"  I  come  over  early  to  ask  the  shild 
would  n't  she  come  home  wit'  me  an'  ate  her 
dinner,"  said  Patrick.  "Herself  sent  me; 
she's  got  a  great  wash  the  day,  last  week 
being  so  rainy,  an'  we  niver  got  word  of 
Nora  being  here  till  this  morning,  and  then 
everybody  had  it  that  passed  by,  wondering 
what  got  us  last  night  that  we  were  n't 
there." 

"  'T  was  on  the  quarter  to  nine  she  come,'* 
said  Uncle  Mike,  taking  up  the  narrative 
with  importance.  "  Herself  an'  me  had 
blown  out  the  light,  going  to  bed,  when 
there  come  a  scuttlin'  at  the  door  and  I 
heard  a  bit  of  a  laugh  like  the  first  bird  in 
the  morning  "  — 

"  '  Stop  where  you  are,  Bridget,'  says  I," 
continued  Mr.  Quin,  without  taking  any  no 
tice,  "  '  an'  I  '11  take  me  third  leg  and  walk 
over  and  bring  Nora  down  to  you.'  Bridget 's 
great  for  the  news  from  home  now,  for  all 
she  was  so  sharp  to  be  1'aving  it." 

"  She  brought  me  a  fine  present,  and  the 
mate  of  it  for  yourself,"  said  Mike  Duffy. 
"  Two  good  thorn  sticks  for  the  two  of  us. 
They  're  inside  in  the  house." 


44  WHERE  'S  NORA  1 

«*  A  thorn  stick,  indeed  !  Did  she  now  ?  " 
exclaimed  Patrick,  with  unusual  delight. 
"  The  poor  shild,  did  she  do  that  now  ?  I  Ve 
thought  manny's  the  time  since  I  got  me 
lameness  how  well  I  'd  like  one  o'  those  old- 
fashioned  thorn  sticks.  Me  own  is  one  o' 
them  sticks  a  man  'd  carry  tin  years  and  toss 
it  into  a  brook  at  the  ind  an'  not  miss  it." 

"  They  're  good  thorn  sticks,  the  both  of 
them,"  said  Mike  complacently.  "  I  don't 
know  'ill  I  bring  'em  out  before  she  comes." 

"  Is  she  a  pritty  slip  of  a  gerrl,  I  d'  know  ?  " 
asked  Patrick,  with  increased  interest. 

"  She  ain't,  then,"  answered  his  compan 
ion  frankly.  "  She  does  be  thin  as  a  young 
grasshopper,  and  she  's  red-headed,  and  she  's 
freckled,  too,  from  the  sea,  like  all  them 
young  things  comin'  over ;  but  she 's  got  a 
pritty  voice,  like  all  her  mother's  folks,  and 
a  quick  eye  like  a  bird's.  The  old-country 
talk 's  fresh  in  her  mouth,  too,  so  it  is  ; 
you  'd  think  you  were  coming  out  o'  mass 
some  spring  morning  at  home  and  hearing 
all  the  girls  whin  they'd  be  chatting  and 
funning  at  the  boys.  I  do  be  thinking  she 's 
a  smart  little  girl,  annyway  ;  look  at  her  off 
to  see  the  town  so  early  and  not  back  yet, 
bad  manners  to  her !  She  '11  be  wanting 


WHERE  '8  NORA  t  45 

some  clothes,  I  suppose ;  she 's  very  old- 
fashioned  looking ;  they  does  always  be 
wanting  new  clothes,  coming  out,"  and  Mike 
gave  an  ostentatious  sigh  and  suggestive 
glance  at  his  brother-in-law. 

"  'Deed,  I  'm  willing  to  help  her  get  a 
good  start ;  ain't  she  me  own  sister's  shild  ?  " 
agreed  Patrick  Quin  cheerfully.  "  We  've 
been  young  ourselves,  too.  Well,  then, 
'tis  bad  news  of  old  Mary  Donahoe  bein' 
gone  at  the  farm.  I  always  thought  if  I  'd 
go  home  how  I  'd  go  along  the  fields  to  get 
the  great  welcome  from  her.  She  was  one 
that  always  liked  to  hear  folks  had  done 
well,"  and  he  looked  down  at  his  comforta 
ble,  clean  old  clothes  as  if  they  but  reminded 
him  how  poor  a  young  fellow  he  had  come 
away.  "  I  'm  very  sorry  afther  Mary ;  she 
was  a  good  'oman,  God  save  her ! " 

"  Faix,  it  was  time  for  her,"  insisted 
Mike,  not  without  sympathy.  "  Were  you 
afther  wanting  her  to  live  forever,  the  poor 
soul?  An'  the  shild  said  she'd  the  best 
funeral  was  ever  in  the  parish  of  Dunkenny 
since  she  remimbered  it.  What  could  anny 
one  ask  more  than  that,  and  she  r'aching 
such  an  age,  the  cr'atur' !  Stop  here  awhile 
an'  you  '11  hear  all  the  tark  from  Nora  ;  she 


46  WHERE  >S  NORA  t 

told  over  to  me  all  the  folks  that  was  there. 
Where  has  she  gone  wit'  herself,  I  don't 
know  ?  Mary  Ann !  "  he  turned  his  head 
toward  the  house  and  called  in  a  loud,  com 
plaining  tone ;  "  where 's  Nora,  annyway  ?  " 

"  Here  's  Nora,  then,"  a  sweet  girlish  voice 
made  unexpected  reply,  and  a  light  young 
figure  flitted  from  the  sidewalk  behind  him 
and  stood  lower  down  on  the  green  bank. 

"  What 's  wanting  wit'  Nora  ?  "  and  she 
stooped  quickly  like  a  child  to  pick  some  of 
the  dandelions  as  if  she  had  found  gold. 
She  had  a  sprig  of  wild-cherry  blossom  in 
her  dress,  which  she  must  have  found  a  good 
way  out  in  the  country. 

"  Come  now,  and  speak  to  Patrick  Quin, 
your  mother's  own  brother,  that's  waiting 
here  for  you  all  this  time  you  've  been  run 
ning  over  the  place,"  commanded  Mr.  Duffy, 
with  some  severity. 

"  An'  is  it  me  own  Uncle  Patsy,  dear  ?  " 
exclaimed  Nora,  with  the  sweetest  brogue 
and  most  affectionate  sincerity.  "  Oh,  that 
me  mother  could  see  him  too !  "  and  she 
dropped  on  her  knees  beside  the  lame  little 
man  and  kissed  him,  and  knelt  there  looking 
at  him  with  delight,  holding  his  willing  hand 
in  both  her  own. 


WHERE  'S  NORA  f  47 

"An'  ain't  you  got  me  mother's  own 
looks,  too  ?  Oh,  Uncle  Patsy,  is  it  yourself, 
dear?  I  often  heard  about  you,  and  I 
brought  you  me  mother's  heart's  love,  'deed 
I  did  then  !  It 's  many  a  lovely  present  of 
a  pound  you  've  sent  us.  An'  I  've  got  a 
thorn  stick  that  grew  in  the  hedge,  goin'  up 
the  little  rise  of  ground  above  the  Wishin' 
Brook,  sir ;  mother  said  you  'd  mind  the  place 
well  when  I  told  you." 

"  I  do  then,  me  shild,"  said  Patrick  Quin, 
with  dignity  ;  "  't  is  manny  the  day  we  all 
played  there  together,  for  all  we  're  so  scat 
tered  now  and  some  dead,  too,  God  rest 
them !  Sure,  you  're  a  nice  little  gerrl,  an'  I 
give  you  great  welcome  and  the  hope  you  '11 
do  well.  Come  along  wit'  me  now.  Your 
Aunty  Biddy 's  jealous  to  put  her  two  eyes 
on  you,  an'  we  never  getting  the  news  you  'd 
come  till  late  this  morning.  '  I  '11  go  fetch 
Nora  for  you,'  says  I,  to  contint  her. 
'They'll  be  tarked  out  at  Duffy's  by  this 
time,'  says  I." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  full  o'  tark  yet !  "  protested 
Nora  gayly.  "  Coom  on,  then,  Uncle  Pat 
sy  ! "  and  she  gave  him  her  strong  young 
hand  as  he  rose. 

"An'  how  do  you  be  likin'  Ameriky?" 


48  WHERE  'S  NORA  1 

asked  the  pleased  old  man,  as  they  walked 
along. 

"  I  like  Ameriky  fine,"  answered  the  girl 
gravely.  She  was  taller  than  he,  though 
she  looked  so  slender  and  so  young.  "  I 
was  very  downhearted,  too,  1'avin'  home  and 
me  mother,  but  I  '11  go  back  to  it  some  day, 
God  willing,  sir ;  I  could  n't  die  wit'out  see 
ing  me  mother  again.  I  'm  all  over  the 
place  here  since  daybreak.  I  think  I  'd  like 
work  best  on  the  railway,"  and  she  turned 
toward  him  with  a  resolved  and  serious  look. 

"  Wisha !  there  's  no  work  at  all  for  a  girl 
like  you  on  the  Road,"  said  Uncle  Patsy 
patiently.  "You've  a  bit  to  learn  yet, 
sure  ;  't  is  the  mill  you  mane." 

"  There  '11  be  plinty  work  to  do.  I  always 
thought  at  home,  when  I  heard  the  folks 
tarking,  that  I  'd  get  work  on  the  railway 
when  I'd  come  to  Ameriky.  Yis,  indeed, 
sir !  "  continued  Nora  earnestly.  "  I  was 
looking  at  the  mills  just  now,  and  I  heard 
the  great  n'ise  from  them.  I'd  never  be 
afther  shutting  meself  up  in  anny  mill  out 
of  the  good  air.  I  've  no  call  to  go  to  jail 
yet  in  thim  mill  walls.  Perhaps  there  'd  be 
somebody  working  next  me  that  I  'd  never 
get  to  like,  sir." 


WHERE  'S  NORA  f  49 

There  was  something  so  convinced  and 
decided  about  these  arguments  that  Uncle 
Patsy,  usually  the  calm  autocrat  of  his  young 
relatives,  had  nothing  whatever  to  say.  Nora 
was  gently  keeping  step  with  his  slow  gait. 
She  had  won  his  heart  once  for  all  when 
she  called  him  by  the  old  boyish  name  her 
mother  used  forty  years  before,  when  they 
played  together  by  the  Wishing  Brook. 

"  I  wonder  do  you  know  a  b'y  named 
Johnny  O'Callahan  ?  "  inquired  Nora  pre 
sently,  in  a  somewhat  confidential  tone  ;  "  a 
pritty  b'y  that 's  working  on  the  railway ;  I 
seen  him  last  night  and  I  coming  here ;  he 
ain't  a  guard  at  all,  but  a  young  fellow  that 
minds  the  brakes.  We  stopped  a  long  while 
out  there ;  somethin'  got  off  the  rails,  and  he 
adwised  wit'  me,  seeing  I  was  a  stranger. 
He  said  he  knew  you,  sir." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Johnny  O'Callahan.  I  know 
him  well ;  he  's  a  nice  b'y,  too,"  answered 
Patrick  Quin  approvingly. 

"  Yis,  sir,  a  pritty  b'y,"  said  Nora,  and 
her  color  brightened  for  an  instant,  but  she 
said  no  more. 


50  WHERE  'S  NORA  t 

II. 

Mike  Duffy  and  his  wife  came  into  the 
Quins'  kitchen  one  week-day  night,  dressed 
in  their  Sunday  clothes ;  they  had  been 
making  a  visit  to  their  well-married  daugh 
ter  in  Lawrence.  Patrick  Quin's  chair  was 
comfortably  tipped  back  against  the  wall, 
and  Bridget,  who  looked  somewhat  gloomy, 
was  putting  away  the  white  supper-dishes. 

"Where's  Nora?"  demanded  Mike 
Duffy,  after  the  first  salutations. 

"  You  may  well  say  it ;  I  'm  afther  mis 
sing  her  every  hour  in  the  day,"  lamented 
Bridget  Quin. 

"  Nora 's  gone  into  business  on  the  Road 
then,  so  she  has,"  said  Patrick,  with  an  air 
of  fond  pride.  He  was  smoking,  and  in  his 
shirt-sleeves ;  his  coat  lay  on  the  wooden  set 
tee  at  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"  Hand  me  me  old  coat  there  before  you 
sit  down;  I  want  me  pocket,"  he  com 
manded,  and  Mike  obeyed.  Mary  Ann, 
fresh  from  her  journey,  began  at  once  to 
give  a  spirited  account  of  her  daughters 
best  room  and  general  equipment  for  house 
keeping,  but  she  suddenly  became  aware 
that  the  tale  was  of  secondary  interest. 


WHERE  '8  NORA  f  51 

When  the  narrator  stopped  for  breath  there 
was  a  polite  murmur  of  admiration,  but 
her  husband  boldly  repeated  his  question. 
"  Where  's  Nora  ?  "  he  insisted,  and  the 
Quins  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed. 

"  Ourselves  is  old  hins  that 's  hatched 
ducks,"  confessed  Patrick.  "  Ain't  I  afther 
telling  you  she's  gone  into  trade  on  the 
Road  ? "  and  he  took  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth,  —  that  after-supper  pipe  which 
neither  prosperity  nor  adversity  was  apt  to 
interrupt.  "  She  's  set  up  for  herself  over- 
right  the  long  switch,  down  there  at  Birch 
Plains.  Nora  '11  soon  be  rich,  the  cr'atur' ; 
her  mind  was  on  it  from  the  first  start ; 
't  was  from  one  o'  them  O'Callahan  b'ys  she 
got  the  notion,  the  night  she  come  here 
first  a  greenhorn." 

"  Well,  well,  she 's  lost  no  time  ;  ain't  she 
got  the  invintion !  "  chuckled  Mr.  Michael 
Duffy,  who  delighted  in  the  activity  of 
others.  "  What  excuse  had  she  for  Birch 
Plains  ?  There 's  no  town  to  it." 

"  'T  was  a  chance  on  the  Road  she  mint 
to  have  from  the  first,"  explained  the  proud 
uncle,  forgetting  his  pipe  altogether; 
"  't  was  that  she  told  me  the  first  day  she 
came  out,  an'  she  walking  along  going  home 


52  WHERE  '8  NORA  f 

wit'  me  to  her  dinner ;  't  was  the  first  speech 
I  had  wit'  Nora.  ''Tis  the  mills  you 
mane  ? '  says  I.  '  No,  no,  Uncle  Patsy ! ' 
says  she, '  it  ain't  the  mills  at  all,  at  all ;  't  is 
on  the  Road  I  'm  going.'  I  t'ought  she  'd 
some  wild  notion  she  'd  soon  be  laughing  at, 
but  she  settled  down  very  quiet-like  with 
Aunty  Biddy  here,  knowing  yourselves  to 
be  going  to  Lawrence,  and  I  told  her  stay 
as  long  as  she  had  a  mind.  Wisha,  she  'd 
an  old  apron  on  her  in  five  minutes'  time, 
an'  took  hold  wit'  the  wash,  and  wint  sing 
ing  like  a  blackbird  out  in  the  yard  at  the 
line.  '  Sit  down,  Aunty ! '  says  she ;  '  you  're 
not  so  light-stepping  as  me,  an'  I  '11  tell  you 
all  the  news  from  home ;  an'  I  '11  get  the 
dinner,  too,  when  I  've  done  this,'  says  she. 
Wisha,  but  she 's  the  good  cook  for  such  a 
young  thing ;  't  is  Bridget  says  it  as  well  as 
meself .  She  made  a  stew  that  day ;  't  was 
like  the  ones  her  mother  made  Sundays, 
she  said,  if  they'd  be  lucky  in  getting  a 
piece  of  meat ;  't  was  a  fine-tasting  stew, 
too;  she  thinks  we're  all  rich  over  here. 
*  So  we  are,  me  dear ! '  says  I,  *  but  every 
one  don't  have  the  sinse  to  believe  it.' " 

"  Spake  for  yourselves  !  "  exclaimed  one 
of  the  listeners.     "  You  do  be  like  Father 


WHERE  >S  NORA  t  53 

Ross,  always  pr'achin'  that  we  'd  best  want 
less  than  want  more.  He  takes  honest 
folks  for  fools,  poor  man,"  said  Mary  Ann 
Duffy,  who  had  no  patience  at  any  time 
with  new  ideas.  » 

"  An'  so  she  wint  on  the  next  two  or  free 
days,"  said  Patrick  approvingly,  without 
noticing  the  interruption,  "being  as  quiet 
as  you  'd  ask,  and  being  said  by  her  aunt 
in  everything ;  and  she  would  n't  let  on  she 
was  homesick,  but  she  'd  no  tark  of  anything 
but  the  folks  at  Dunkinny.  When  there  'd 
be  nothing  to  do  for  an  hour  she  'd  slip  out 
and  be  gone  wit'  herself  for  a  little  while, 
and  be  very  still  com  in'  in.  Last  Thursday, 
after  supper,  she  ran  out ;  but  by  the  time 
I  'd  done  me  pipe,  back  she  came  flying  in 
at  the  door. 

" '  I  'm  going  off  to  a  place  called  Birch 
Plains  to-morrow  morning,  on  the  nine, 
Uncle  Patsy,'  says  she ;  '  do  you  know 
where  it  is  ? '  says  she.  '  I  do,'  says  I ; 
*  't  was  not  far  from  it  I  broke  me  leg  wit' 
the  dam'  derrick.  'T  was  to  Jerry  Ryan's 
house  they  took  me  first.  There 's  no  town 
there  at  all ;  't  is  the  only  house  in  it ; 
Ryan 's  the  switchman.' 

" '  Would  they  take  me  to  lodge  for  a 


54  WHERE  'S  NORA  1 

while,  I  d'  know  ? '  says  she,  havin'  great 
business.  '  What  'd  ye  be  af ther  in  a  place 
like  that?  '  says  I.  '  Ryan 's  got  girls  him 
self,  an'  they  're  all  here  in  the  mills,  goin' 
home  Saturday  nights,  'less  there's  some 
show  or  some  dance.  There  's  no  money 
out  there.'  She  laughed  then  an'  wint  back 
to  the  door,  and  in  come  Mickey  Dunn 
from  McLoughlin's  store,  lugging  the  size 
of  himself  of  bundles.  «  What 's  all  this  ?  ' 
says  I ;  "t  ain't  here  they  belong ;  I  bought 
nothing  to-day.'  '  Don't  be  scolding  ! '  says 
she,  and  Mickey  got  out  of  it  laughing. 
'  I  'm  going  to  be  cooking  for  meself  in  the 
morning ! '  says  she,  with  her  head  on  one 
side,  like  a  cock-sparrow.  '  You  lind  me 
the  price  o'  the  fire  and  I  '11  pay  you  in 
cakes,'  says  she,  and  off  she  wint  then  to 
bed.  'T  was  before  day  I  heard  her  at  the 
stove,  and  I  smelt  a  baking  that  made  me 
want  to  go  find  it,  and  when  I  come  out 
in  the  kitchen  she  'd  the  table  covered  with 
her  cakeens,  large  and  small.  '  What 's  all 
this  whillalu,  me  topknot-hm  ? '  says  I.  '  Ate 
that,'  says  she,  and  hopped  back  to  the  oven- 
door.  Her  aunt  come  out  then,  scolding 
fine,  and  whin  she  saw  the  great  baking  she 
dropped  down  in  a  chair  like  she'd  faint 


WHERE  '8  NORA1  55 

and  her  breath  all  gone.  'We  'ont  ate 
them  in  ten  days,'  says  she ;  *  no,  not  till 
the  blue  mould  has  struck  them  all,  God 
help  us ! '  says  she.  '  Don't  bother  me,' 
says  Nora  ;  '  I  'm  goin'  off  with  them  all  on 
the  nine.  Uncle  Patsy  '11  help  me  wit'  me 
basket.' 

"  '  Uncle  Patsy  'ont  now,'  says  Bridget. 
Faix,  I  thought  she  was  up  with  one  o' 
them  t'ree  days'  scolds  she  'd  have  when 
she  was  young  and  the  childre'  all  the  one 
size.  You  could  hear  the  bawls  of  her  a 
mile  away. 

"  '  Whishper,  dear,'  says  Nora ;  '  I  don't 
want  to  be  livin'  on  anny  of  me  folks,  and 
Johnny  O'Callahan  said  all  the  b'ys  was 
wishing  there  was  somebody  would  kape  a 
clane  little  place  out  there  at  Birch  Plains, 
—  with  something  to  ate  and  the  like  of 
a  cup  of  tay.  He  says  'tis  a  good  little 
chance  ;  them  big  trains  does  all  be  wait 
ing  there  tin  minutes  and  fifteen  minutes 
at  a  time,  and  everybody  's  hungry.  "  I  '11 
thry  me  luck  for  a  couple  o'  days,"  says  I ; 
"  't  is  no  harm,  an'  I  've  tin  shillings  o'  me 
own  that  Father  Daley  gave  me  wit'  a 
grand  blessing  and  I  Faving  home  behind 


56  WHERE  '5  NORA  t 


c«  c 


What  tark  you  have  of  Johnny 
O'Callahan,'  says  I. 

"  Look  at  this  now ! "  continued  the 
proud  uncle,  while  Aunt  Biddy  sat  tri 
umphantly  watching  the  astonished  audi 
ence  ;  "  't  is  a  letter  I  got  from  the  shild 
last  Friday  night,"  and  he  brought  up  a 
small  piece  of  paper  from  his  coat-pocket. 
"  She  writes  a  good  hand,  too.  '  Dear 
Uncle  Patsy,'  says  she,  'this  leaves  me 
well,  thanks  be  to  God.  I  'm  doing  the  roar 
ing  trade  with  me  cakes ;  all  Ryan's  little 
boys  is  selling  on  the  trains.  I  took  one 
pound  three  the  first  day :  't  was  a  great  ex 
cursion  train  got  stuck  fast  and  they  'd  a 
hot  box  on  a  wheel  keeping  them  an  hour 
and  two  more  trains  stopping  for  them; 
't  would  be  a  very  pleasant  day  in  the  old 
country  that  anybody  'd  take  a  pound  and 
three  shillings.  Dear  Uncle  Patsy,  I  want 
a  whole  half-barrel  of  that  same  flour  and 
ten  pounds  of  sugar,  and  I  '11  pay  it  back 
on  Sunday.  I  sind  respects  and  duty  to 
Aunty  Bridget  and  all  friends ;  this  1'aves 
me  in  great  haste.  I  wrote  me  dear  mother 
last  night  and  sint  her  me  first  pound,  God 
bless  her.' " 

"  Look  at  that  for  you  now !  "  exclaimed 


WHERE  >S  NORA  f  57 

Mike  Duffy.  "  Did  n't  I  tell  every  one  here 
she  was  fine  an'  smart  ?  " 

"  She  '11  be  soon  Prisident  of  the  Road," 
announced  Aunt  Mary  Ann,  who,  having 
been  energetic  herself,  was  pleased  to  recog 
nize  the  same  quality  in  others. 

"  She  don't  be  so  afraid  of  the  worruk  as 
the  worruk 's  afraid  of  her,"  said  Aunt 
Bridget  admiringly.  "  She  '11  have  her  fling 
for  a  while  and  be  glad  to  go  in  and  get  a 
good  chance  in  the  mill,  and  be  kaping  her 
plants  in  the  weave-room  windows  this  winter 
•with  the  rest  of  the  girls.  Come,  tell  us  all 
about  Elleneen  and  the  baby.  I  ain't  heard 
a  word  about  Lawrence  yet,"  she  added 
politely. 

"  Ellen 's  doing  fine,  an'  it 's  a  pritty  baby. 
She  's  got  a  good  husband,  too,  that  1'aves 
her  her  own  way  and  the  keep  of  his  money 
every  Saturday  night,"  said  Mary  Ann  ;  and 
the  little  company  proceeded  to  the  discus 
sion  of  a  new  and  hardly  less  interesting 
subject.  But  before  they  parted,  they  spoke 
again  of  Nora. 

"  She  's  a  fine,  crabbed  little  gerrl,  that 
little  Nora,"  said  Mr.  Michael  Duffy. 

"  Thank  God,  none  o'  me  childre'  is  red 
headed  on  me ;  they  're  no  more  to  be  let 


58  WHERE  '8  NORA  f 

an'  held  than  a  flick  o'  fire,"  said  Aunt 
Mary  Ann.  "  Who  'd  ever  take  the  notion 
to  be  setting  up  business  out  there  on  the 
Birchy  Plains  ?  " 

"  Kyan's  folks  '11  look  after  her,  sure,  the 
same  as  ourselves,"  insisted  Uncle  Patsy 
hopefully,  as  he  lighted  his  pipe  again.  It 
was  like  a  summer  night ;  the  kitchen  win 
dows  were  all  open,  the  month  of  May  was 
nearly  at  an  end,  and  there  was  a  sober 
croaking  of  frogs  in  the  low  fields  that  lay 
beyond  the  village. 

III. 

"  Where 's  Nora  ?  "  Young  Johnny  O'Cal- 
lahan  was  asking  the  question  ;  the  express 
had  stopped  for  water,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
the  only  passenger ;  this  was  his  day  off. 

Mrs.  Ryan  was  sitting  on  her  doorstep 
to  rest  in  the  early  evening ;  her  husband 
had  been  promoted  from  switch-tender  to 
boss  of  the  great  water-tank  which  was  just 
beginning  to  be  used,  and  there  was  talk 
of  further  improvements  and  promotions  at 
Birch  Plains  ;  but  the  good-natured  wife  sen 
sibly  declared  that  the  better  off  a  woman 
was,  the  harder  she  always  had  to  work. 


WHERE  >S  NORA  f  59 

She  took  a  long  look  at  Johnny,  who  was 
dressed  even  more  carefully  than  if  it  were 
a  pleasant  Sunday. 

"This  don't  be  your  train,  annyway," 
she  answered,  in  a  meditative  tone.  "  How 
come  you  here  now  all  so  fine,  I  'd  like  to 
know,  riding  in  the  cars  like  a  lord  ;  ain't 
you  brakeman  yet  on  old  twinty-four  ?  " 

"  'Deed  I  am,  Mrs.  Ryan ;  you  would  n't 
be  afther  grudging  a  boy  his  day  off? 
Where  's  Nora  ?  " 

"  She 's  gone  up  the  road  a  bitteen,"  said 
Mrs.  Ryan,  as  if  she  suddenly  turned  to 
practical  affairs.  "  She  's  worked  hard  the 
day,  poor  shild !  and  she  took  the  cool  of 
the  evening,  and  the  last  bun  she  had  left, 
and  wint  away  with  herself.  I  kep'  the 
taypot  on  the  stove  for  her,  but  she  'd  have 
none  at  all,  at  all !  " 

The  young  man  turned  away,  and  Mrs. 
Ryan  looked  after  him  with  an  indulgent 
smile.  "  He  's  a  pritty  b'y,"  she  said.  "  I  'd 
like  well  if  he  'd  give  a  look  at  one  o'  me 
own  gerrls ;  Julia,  now,  would  look  well 
walking  with  him,  she  's  so  dark.  He 's  got 
money  saved.  I  saw  the  first  day  he  come 
after  the  cakeens  't  was  the  one  that  baked 
them  was  in  his  mind.  She's  lucky,  is 
Nora;  well,  I'm  glad  of  it." 


60  WHERE  >S  NORA  ? 

It  was  fast  growing  dark,  and  Johnny's 
eyes  were  still  dazzled  by  the  bright  lights 
of  the  train  as  he  stepped  briskly  along  the 
narrow  country  road.  The  more  he  had 
seen  Nora  and  the  better  he  liked  her,  the 
less  she  would  have  to  say  to  him,  and  to 
night  he  meant  to  find  her  and  have  a  talk. 
He  had  only  succeeded  in  getting  half  a 
dozen  words  at  a  time  since  the  night  of 
their  first  meeting  on  the  slow  train,  when 
she  had  gladly  recognized  the  peculiar 
brogue  of  her  own  country-side,  as  Johnny 
called  the  names  of  the  stations,  and  John 
ny's  quick  eyes  had  seen  the  tired-looking, 
uncertain,  yet  cheerful  little  greenhorn  in 
the  corner  of  the  car,  and  asked  if  she  were 
not  the  niece  that  was  coming  out  to  Mrs. 
Duffy.  He  had  watched  the  growth  of  her 
business  with  delight,  and  heard  praises  of 
the  cakes  and  buns  with  willing  ears  ;  was 
it  not  his  own  suggestion  that  had  laid  the 
foundation  of  Nora's  prosperity  ?  Since 
their  first  meeting  they  had  always  greeted 
each  other  like  old  friends,  but  Nora  grew 
more  and  more  willing  to  talk  with  any  of 
her  breathless  customers  who  hurried  up 
the  steep  bank  from  the  trains  than  with 
him.  She  would  never  take  any  pay  for 


WHERE'S  NORA?  61 

her  wares  from  him,  and  for  a  week  he  had 
stopped  coming  himself  and  sent  by  a  friend 
his  money  for  the  cakes  ;  but  one  day  poor 
Johnny's  heart  could  not  resist  the  tempta 
tion  of  going  with  the  rest,  and  Nora  had 
given  him  a  happy  look,  straightforward 
and  significant.  There  was  no  time  for  a 
word,  but  she  picked  out  a  crusty  bun,  and 
he  took  it  and  ran  back  without  offering 
to  pay.  It  was  the  best  bun  that  a  man 
ever  ate.  Nora  was  two  months  out  now, 
and  he  had  never  walked  with  her  an  even 
ing  yet. 

The  shadows  were  thick  under  a  long  row 
of  willows;  there  was  a  new  moon,  and  a 
faint  glow  in  the  west  still  lit  the  sky. 
Johnny  walked  on  the  grassy  roadside  with 
his  ears  keen  to  hear  the  noise  of  a  betray 
ing  pebble  under  Nora's  light  foot.  Pre 
sently  his  heart  beat  loud  and  all  out  of  time 
as  a  young  voice  began  to  sing  a  little  way 
beyond. 

Nora  was  walking  slowly  away,  but 
Johnny  stopped  still  to  listen.  She  was 
singing  "  A  Blacksmith  Courted  Me,"  one 
of  the  quaintest  and  sweetest  of  the  old- 
country  songs,  as  she  strolled  along  in  the 
soft-aired  summer  night.  By  the  time  she 


62  WHERE'S  NORA? 

came  to  "  My  love  's  gone  along  the  fields," 
Johnny  hurried  on  to  overtake  her;  he 
could  hear  the  other  verses  some  other  time, 
—  the  bird  was  even  sweeter  than  the 
voice. 

Nora  was  startled  for  a  moment,  and 
stopped  singing,  as  if  she  were  truly  a  bird 
in  a  bush,  but  she  did  not  flutter  away.  "  Is 
it  yourself,  Mister  Johnny  ? "  she  asked 
soberly,  as  if  the  frank  affection  of  the  song 
had  not  been  assumed. 

"  It 's  meself ,"  answered  Johnny,  with 
equal  discretion.  "  I  come  out  for  a  mout'- 
f ul  of  air  ;  it 's  very  hot  inside  in  the  town. 
Days  off  are  well  enough  in  winter,  but  in 
summer  you  get  a  fine  air  on  the  train. 
'T  was  well  we  both  took  the  same  direction. 
How  is  the  business  ?  All  the  b'ys  are  say 
ing  they'd  be  lost  without  it;  sure  there 
ain't  a  stomach  of  them  but  wants  its  bun, 
and  they  cried  the  length  of  the  Road  that 
day  the  thunder  spoiled  the  baking." 

"  Take  this,"  said  Nora,  as  if  she  spoke 
to  a  child ;  "  there 's  a  fine  crust  of  sugar 
on  the  top.  'T  is  one  I  brought  out  for  me 
little  supper,  but  I  'm  so  pleased  wit'  bein' 
rich  that  I  've  no  need  at  all  for  'ating.  An' 
I  'm  as  tired  as  I  'm  rich,"  she  added,  with 


WHERE'S  NORA*  63 

a  sigh ;  "  't  is  few  can  say  the  same  in  this 
lazy  land." 

"Sure,  let's  ate  it  together;  'tis  a  big 
little  cakeen,"  urged  Johnny,  breaking  the 
bun  and  anxiously  offering  Nora  the  larger 
piece.  "  I  can  like  the  taste  of  anything 
better  by  halves,  if  I  've  got  company.  You 
ought  to  have  a  good  supper  of  tay  and 
a  piece  of  steak  and  some  potaties  rather 
than  this !  Don't  be  giving  yourself  nothing 
but  the  saved  cakes,  an'  you  working  so 
hard !  " 

"  'T  is  plenty  days  I  'd  a  poorer  supper 
when  I  was  at  home,"  said  Nora  sadly ; 
*'  me  father  dying  so  young,  and  all  of  us 
begging  at  me  mother's  skirts.  It 's  all  me 
thought  how  will  I  get  rich  and  give  me 
mother  all  the  fine  things  that 's  in  the 
world.  I  wish  I  'd  come  over  sooner,  but  it 
broke  my  heart  whinever  I  'd  think  of  being 
out  of  sight  of  her  face.  She  looks  old  now, 
me  mother  does." 

Nora  may  have  been  touched  by  Johnny's 
affectionate  interest  in  her  supper ;  she 
forgot  all  her  shyness  and  drew  nearer  to 
him  as  they  walked  along,  and  he  drew  a 
little  closer  to  her. 

"  My  mother  is  dead  these  two  years,"  h& 


64  WHERE  'S  NORA  t 

said  simply.  "It  makes  a  man  be  very 
lonesome  when  his  mother  's  dead.  I  board 
with  my  sister  that 's  married ;  I  'm  not 
much  there  at  all.  I  do  be  thinking  I  'd 
like  a  house  of  my  own.  I  've  plinty  saved 
for  it." 

"  I  said  in  the  first  of  coming  out  that  I  'd 
go  home  again  when  I  had  fifty  pounds," 
said  Nora  hastily,  and  taking  the  other  side 
of  the  narrow  road.  "I've  got  a  piece 
of  it  already,  and  I  've  sent  back  more  be 
side.  I  thought  I  'd  be  gone  two  years,  but 
some  days  I  think  I  won't  be  so  long  as 
that." 

"  Why  don't  you  be  afther  getting  your 
mother  out  ?  'T  is  so  warm  in  the  winter  in 
a  good  house,  and  no  dampness  like  there 
does  be  at  home ;  and  her  brother  and  her 
sister  both  being  here."  There  was  deep 
anxiety  in  Johnny's  voice. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  indeed !  "  said  Nora. 
"  She  's  very  wake-hearted,  is  me  mother ; 
she  'd  die  coming  away  from  the  old  place 
and  going  to  sea.  No,  I  'm  going  to  work 
meself  and  go  home ;  I  '11  have  presents, 
too,  for  everybody  along  the  road,  and  the 
children  '11  be  running  and  skrieghing  afther 
me,  and  they'll  all  get  sweeties  from  me. 


WHERE'S  NORA?  65 

'T  is  a  very  poor  neighborhood  where  we 
live,  but  a  lovely  sight  of  the  say.  It  ain't 
often  annybody  comes  home  to  it,  but  't  will 
be  a  great  day  then,  and  the  poor  old  folks  '11 
all  be  calling  afther  me  :  '  Where 's  Nora  ? ' 
4  Show  me  Nora  !  '  '  Nora,  sure,  what  have 
you  got  for  me  ? '  I  'ont  forget  one  of  them 
aither,  God  helping  me  ! "  said  Nora,  in  a 
passion  of  tenderness  and  pity.  "  And  oh, 
Johnny,  then  afther  that  I  '11  see  me  mother 
in  the  door  !  " 

Johnny  was  so  close  at  her  side  that  she 
slipped  her  hand  into  his,  and  neither  of 
them  stopped  to  think  about  so  sweet  and 
natural  a  pleasure.  "  I  'd  like  well  to  help 
you,  me  darlin',"  said  Johnny. 

"  Sure,  an'  was  n't  it  yourself  gave  me  all 
me  good  fortune  ?  "  exclaimed  Nora.  "  I  'd 
be  hard-hearted  an'  I  forgot  that  so  soon  and 
you  a  Kerry  boy,  and  me  mother  often 
spaking  of  your  mother's  folks  before  ever 
I  thought  of  coming  out !  " 

"  Sure  and  would  n't  you  spake  the  good 
word  to  your  mother  about  me  sometime, 
dear  ?  "  pleaded  Johnny,  openly  taking  the 
part  of  lover.  Nora's  hand  was  still  in  his ; 
they  were  walking  slowly  in  the  summer 
night.  "  I  loved  you  the  first  word  I  heard 


66  WHERE  >S  NORA  ? 

out  of  your  mouth,  —  't  was  like  a  thrush 
from  home  singing  to  me  there  in  the  train. 
I  said  when  I  got  home  that  night,  I  'd  think 
of  no  other  girl  till  the  day  I  died." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Nora,  frightened  with  the 
change  of  his  voice.  "  Oh,  Johnny,  't  is 
too  soon.  We  never  walked  out  this  way 
before  ;  you  '11  have  to  wait  for  me  ;  perhaps 
you  'd  soon  be  tired  of  poor  Nora,  and  the 
likes  of  one  that 's  all  for  saving  and  going 
home !  You  '11  marry  a  prittier  girl  than 
me  some  day,"  she  faltered,  and  let  go  his 
hand. 

"  Indeed,  I  won't,  then,"  insisted  Johnny 
O'Callahan  stoutly. 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  home  to  see  me 
mother  ?  "  said  Nora  soberly.  "  I  'm  afther 
being  very  homesick,  't  is  the  truth  for  me. 
I  'd  lose  all  me  courage  if  it  wa'n't  for  the 
hope  of  that." 

"  I  will,  indeed,"  said  Johnny  honestly. 

Nora  put  out  her  hand  again,  of  her  own 
accord.  "  I  '11  not  say  no,  then,"  she  whis 
pered  in  the  dark.  "  I  can't  work  long 
unless  I  do  be  happy,  and  —  well,  leave  me 
free  till  the  month's  end,  and  maybe  then 
I  '11  say  yes.  Stop,  stop !  "  she  let  go  John 
ny's  hand,  and  hurried  along  by  herself  in 


WHERE'S   NORA?  67 

the  road,  Johnny,  in  a  transport  of  hap« 
piness,  walking  very  fast  to  keep  up.  She 
reached  a  knoll  where  he  could  see  her 
slender  shape  against  the  dim  western  sky. 
"  Wait  till  I  tell  you  ;  whisper  I  "  said  Nora 
eagerly.  "You  know  there  were  some  of 
the  managers  of  the  road,  the  superintend 
ents  and  all  those  big  ones,  came  to  Birch 
Plains  yesterday  ?  " 

"  I  did  be  hearing  something,"  said  John 
ny,  wondering. 

"  There  was  a  quiet-spoken,  nice  old 
gentleman  came  asking  me  at  the  door  for 
something  to  eat,  and  I  being  there  baking ; 
't  is  my  time  in  the  morning  whin  the  early 
trains  does  be  gone,  and  I  've  a  fine  stretch 
till  the  expresses  are  beginnin'  to  screech,  — 
the  tin,  and  the  tin-thirty-two,  and  the  Flying 
Aigle.  I  was  in  a  great  hurry  with  word 
of  an  excursion  coming  in  the  afternoon  and 
me  stock  very  low  ;  I  'd  been  baking  since 
four  o'clock.  He  'd  no  coat  on  him,  't  was 
very  warm ;  and  I  thought  't  was  some 
tramp.  Lucky  for  me  I  looked  again  and  I 
said,  '  What  are  you  wanting,  sir  ? '  and 
then  I  saw  he  'd  a  beautiful  shirt  on  him, 
and  was  very  quiet  and  pleasant. 

*' '  I   came  away  wit'out   me   breakfast,' 


68  WHERE  >S  NORA  t 

says  he.  '  Can  you  give  me  something 
without  too  much  throuble  ? '  says  he.  '  Do 
you  have  anny  of  those  buns  there  that  I 
hear  the  men  talking  about  ? ' 

" '  There 's  buns  there,  sir,'  says  I,  '  and 
I  '11  make  you  a  cup  of  tay  or  a  cup  of  coffee 
as  quick  as  I  can,'  says  I,  being  pleased 
at  the  b'ys  giving  me  buns  a  good  name  to 
the  likes  of  him.  He  was  very  hungry,  too, 
poor  man,  an'  I  ran  to  Mrs.  Ryan  to  see  if 
she  'd  a  piece  of  beefsteak,  and  my  luck  ran 
before  me.  He  sat  down  in  me  little  place 
and  enjoyed  himself  well. 

" '  I  had  no  such  breakfast  in  tin  years, 
me  dear,'  said  he  at  the  last,  very  quiet  and 
thankful ;  and  he  1'aned  back  in  the  chair  to 
rest  him,  and  I  cleared  away,  being  in  the 
great  hurry,  and  he  asking  me  how  I  come 
there,  and  I  tolt  him,  and  how  long  I  'd 
been  out,  and  I  said  it  was  two  months  and 
a  piece,  and  she  being  always  in  me  heart, 
I  spoke  of  me  mother,  and  all  me  great 
hopes. 

"  Then  he  sat  and  thought  as  if  his  mind 
wint  to  his  own  business,  and  I  wint  on  wit' 
me  baking.  Says  he  to  me  after  a  while, 
*  We  're  going  to  build  a  branch  road  across 
country  to  connect  with  the  great  moun- 


WHERE'S  NORAf  69 

tain-roads,'  says  he;  'the  junction's  going 
to  be  right  here  ;  't  will  give  you  a  big  mar 
ket  for  your  buns.  There  '11  be  a  lunch- 
counter  in  the  new  station ;  do  you  think 
you  could  run  it?'  says  he,  spaking  very 
sober. 

"  '  I  'd  do  my  best,  sir,  annyway,'  says  I. 
'  I  'd  look  out  for  the  best  of  help.  Do  you 
know  Patrick  Quin,  sir,  that  was  hurt  on 
the  Road  and  gets  a  pinsion,  sir  ?  ' 

"  '  I  do,'  says  he.  '  One  of  the  best  men 
that  ever  worked  for  this  company,'  says  he. 

"  '  He 's  me  mother's  own  brother,  then, 
an'  he  '11  stand  by  me,'  says  I ;  and  he  asked 
me  me  name  and  wrote  it  down  in  a  book 
he  got  out  of  the  pocket  of  him.  '  You 
shall  have  the  place  if  you  want  it,'  says  he  ; 
*  I  won't  forget,'  and  off  he  wint  as  quiet  as 
he  came." 

"  Tell  me  who  was  it  ? "  said  Johnny 
O'Callahan,  listening  eagerly. 

"  Mr.  Ryan  come  tumbling  in  the  next 
minute,  spattered  with  water  from  the  tank. 
'  Well,  then,'  says  he,  '  is  your  fine  company 
gone  ? ' 

"  '  He  is,'  says  I.  '  I  don't  know  is  it 
some  superintendent  ?  He  's  a  nice  man, 
Mr.  Ryan,  whoiver  he  is,'  says  I. 


70  WHERE  'S  NORA  » 

" '  'T  is  the  Gineral  Manager  of  the 
Road,'  says  he  ;  '  that 's  who  he  is,  sure  ! ' 

"My  apron  was  all  flour,  and  I  was  in 
a  great  rage  wit'  so  much  to  do,  but  I  did 
the  best  I  could  for  him.  I  'd  do  the  same 
for  anny  one  so  hungry,"  concluded  Nora 
modestly. 

"  Ain't  you  got  the  Queen's  luck !  "  ex 
claimed  Johnny  admiringly.  "  Your  for 
tune  's  made,  me  dear.  I  '11  have  to  come 
off  the  road  to  help  you." 

"  Oh,  two  good  trades  '11  be  better  than 
one ! "  answered  Nora  gayly,  "  and  the  big 
station  nor  the  branch  road  are  n't  building 

yet." 

"  What  a  fine  little  head  you  've  got,"  said 
Johnny,  as  they  reached  the  house  where  the 
Ryans  lived,  and  the  train  was  whistling 
that  he  meant  to  take  back  to  town.  "  Good 
night,  annyway,  Nora ;  nobody  'd  know  from 
the  size  of  your  head  there  could  be  so  much 
inside  in  it! " 

"I'm  lucky,  too,"  announced  Nora  se 
renely.  "  No,  I  won't  give  you  me  word  till 
the  ind  of  the  month.  You  may  be  seeing 
another  gerrl  before  that,  and  calling  me  the 
red-headed  sparrow.  No,  I  '11  wait  a  good 
while,  and  see  if  the  two  of  us  can't  do 


WHERE  >S  NORA  f  71 

better.  Come,  run  away,  Johnny.  I  '11 
drop  asleep  in  the  road  ;  I  'm  up  since  four 
o'clock  making  me  cakes  for  plinty  b'ys  like 
you." 

The  Ryans  were  all  abed  and  asleep,  but 
there  was  a  lamp  burning  in  the  kitchen. 
Nora  blew  it  out  as  she  stole  into  her  hot 
little  room.  She  had  waited,  talking  eagerly 
with  Johnny,  until  they  saw  the  headlight 
of  the  express  like  a  star,  far  down  the  long 
line  of  double  track. 


IV. 

The  summer  was  not  ended  before  all  the 
railroad  men  knew  about  Johnny  O'Calla- 
han's  wedding  and  all  his  good  fortune. 
They  boarded  at  the  Ryans'  at  first,  but  late 
in  the  evenings  Johnny  and  his  wife  were  at 
work,  building  as  if  they  were  birds.  First, 
there  was  a  shed  with  a  broad  counter  for 
the  cakes,  and  a  table  or  two,  and  the  boys 
did  not  fail  to  notice  that  Nora  had  a  good 
sisterly  work-basket  ready,  and  was  quick  to 
see  that  a  useful  button  was  off  or  a  stitch 
needed.  The  next  fortnight  saw  a  room 
added  to  this,  where  Nora  had  her  own  stove, 
and  cooking  went  on  steadily.  Then  there 


72  WHERE'S  NORA1 

was  another  room  with  white  muslin  curtains 
at  the  windows,  and  scarlet-runner  beans 
made  haste  to  twine  themselves  to  a  line  of 
strings  for  shade.  Johnny  would  unload  a 
few  feet  of  clean  pine  boards  from  the  freight 
train,  and  within  a  day  or  two  they  seemed 
to  be  turned  into  a  wing  of  the  small  castle 
by  some  easy  magic.  The  boys  used  to  lay 
wagers  and  keep  watch,  and  there  was  a 
cheer  out  of  the  engine-cab  and  all  along  the 
platforms  one  day  when  a  tidy  sty  first  ap 
peared  and  a  neat  pig  poked  his  nose  through 
the  fence  of  it.  The  buns  and  biscuits  grew 
famous  ;  customers  sent  for  them  from  the 
towns  up  and  down  the  long  railroad  line, 
and  the  story  of  thrifty,  kind-hearted  little 
Nora  and  her  steady  young  husband  was 
known  to  a  surprising  number  of  persons. 
When  the  branch  road  was  begun,  Nora  and 
Johnny  took  a  few  of  their  particular  friends 
to  board,  and  business  was  further  increased. 
On  Sunday  they  always  went  into  town  to 
mass  and  visited  their  uncles  and  aunts  and 
Johnny's  sister.  Nora  never  said  that  she 
was  tired,  and  almost  never  was  cross.  She 
counted  her  money  every  Saturday  night, 
and  took  it  to  Uncle  Patsy  to  put  into  the 
bank.  She  had  long  talks  about  her  mother 


WHERE  'S  NORA  f  73 

with  Uncle  Patsy,  and  he  always  wrote  home 
for  her  when  she  had  no  time.  Many  a 
pound  went  across  the  sea  in  the  letters,  and 
so  another  summer  came ;  and  one  morning 
when  Johnny's  train  stopped,  Nora  stood  at 
the  door  of  the  little  house  and  held  a  baby 
in  her  arms  for  all  the  boys  to  see.  She  was 
white  as  a  ghost  and  as  happy  as  a  queen. 
"  I  '11  be  making  the  buns  again  pretty  soon," 
she  cried  cheerfully.  "  Have  courage,  boys  ; 
't  won't  be  long  first ;  this  one  '11  be  selling 
them  for  me  on  the  Flying  Aigle,  don't  you 
forget  it !  "  And  there  was  a  great  ringing 
of  the  engine-bell  a  moment  after,  when  the 
train  started. 

V. 

It  was  many  and  many  a  long  month  after 
this  that  an  old  man  and  a  young  woman 
and  a  baby  were  journeying  in  a  side-car 
along  one  of  the  smooth  Irish  roads  into 
County  Kerry.  They  had  left  the  railroad 
an  hour  before  ;  they  had  landed  early  that 
morning  at  the  Cove  of  Cork.  The  side-car 
was  laden  deep  with  bundles  and  boxes,  but 
the  old  horse  trotted  briskly  along  until  the 
gossoon  who  was  driving  turned  into  a  cart- 
track  that  led  through  a  f  urzy  piece  of  wild 


74  WHERE  >S  NORA  t 

pasture-ground  up  toward  the  dark  rain- 
clouded  hills. 

"See,  over  there's  Kinmare!"  said  the 
old  man,  looking  back.  "  Manny 's  the  day 
I  've  trudged  it  and  home  again.  Oh,  I 
know  all  this  country ;  I  knew  it  well  whin 
ayther  of  you  wa'n't  born  !  " 

"  God  be  thanked,  you  did,  sir !  "  responded 
the  gossoon,  with  fervent  admiration.  He 
was  a  pleasant-looking  lad  in  a  ragged  old 
coat  and  an  absolutely  roofless  hat,  through 
which  his  bright  hair  waved  in  the  summer 
wind.  "  Och,  but  the  folks  '11  be  looking  out 
of  all  the  doors  to  see  you  come.  I  '11  be 
afther  saying  I  never  drove  anny  party  with 
so  rich  a  heart ;  there  ain't  a  poor  soul  that 
asked  a  pinny  of  us  since  we  left  Bantry  but 
she's  got  the  shillin'.  Look  a'  the  flock 
coming  now,  sir,  out  of  that  house.  There  's 
the  four-legged  lady  that  pays  the  rint  watch- 
in'  afther  them  from  the  door,  too.  They 
think  you  're  a  gintleman  that 's  shootin',  I 
suppose.  'T  is  Tom  Flaherty's  house,  poor 
crathur  ;  he  died  last  winter,  God  rest  him  ; 
't  was  very  inconvanient  for  him  an'  every 
one  at  the  time,  wit'  snow  on  the  ground  and 
a  great  dale  of  sickness  and  distress.  Father 
Daley,  poor  man,  had  to  go  to  the  hospital 


WHERE  'S  NORA  ?  75 

in  Dublin  wit'  himself  to  get  a  leg  cut  off, 
and  we  'd  nothing  but  rain  out  of  the  sky 
af  ther  that  till  all  the  stones  in  the  road  was 
floatin'  to  the  top." 

"  Son  of  old  John  Flaherty.  I  suppose  ?  " 
asked  the  traveler,  with  a  knowing  air,  after 
he  had  given  the  eager  children  some  pennies 
and  gingerbread,  out  of  a  great  package. 
One  of  the  older  girls  knew  Nora  and  climbed 
to  the  spare  seat  at  her  side  to  join  the 
company.  "Son  of  old  John  Flaherty,  I 
suppose,  that  was  there  before  ?  There  was 
Flahertys  there  and  I  Faving  home  more 
than  thirty-five  years  ago." 

"  Sure  there  's  plinty  Flahertys  in  it  now, 
glory  be  to  God !  "  answered  the  charioteer, 
with  enthusiasm.  "  I  'd  have  no  mother 
meself  but  for  the  Flahertys."  He  leaped 
down  to  lead  the  stumbling  horse  past  a  deep 
rut  and  some  loose  stones,  and  beckoned 
the  little  girl  sternly  from  her  proud  seat. 
"  Run  home,  now  !  "  he  said,  as  she  obeyed : 
"  I  '11  give  you  a  fine  drive  an'  I  coming 
down  the  hill  ;  "  but  she  had  joined  the  trav 
elers  with  full  intent,  and  trotted  gayly 
alongside  like  a  little  dog. 

The  old  passenger  whispered  to  his  com 
panion  that  they  'd  best  double  the  gossoon's 


76  WHERE'S  NORA? 

money,  or  warm  it  with  two  or  three  shil 
lings  extra,  at  least,  and  Nora  nodded  her 
prompt  approval.  "  The  old  folks  are  all 
getting  away ;  we  'd  best  give  a  bitteen  to 
the  young  ones  they  've  left  afther  them," 
said  Uncle  Patsy,  by  way  of  excuse.  "  Och, 
there 's  more  beggars  between  here  and 
Queenstown  than  you  'd  find  in  the  whole  of 
Ameriky." 

It  seemed  to  Nora  as  if  her  purseful  of 
money  were  warm  against  her  breast,  like  an 
other  heart ;  the  sixpences  in  her  pocket  all 
felt  warm  to  her  fingers  and  hopped  by  them 
selves  into  the  pleading  hands  that  were 
stretched  out  all  along  the  way.  The  sweet 
clamor  of  the  Irish  voices,  the  ready  bless 
ings,  the  frank  requests  to  those  returning 
from  America  with  their  fortunes  made, 
were  all  delightful  to  her  ears.  How  she 
had  dreamed  of  this  day,  and  how  the  sun 
and  shadows  were  chasing  each  other  over 
these  upland  fields  at  last !  How  close  the 
blue  sea  looked  to  the  dark  hills !  It  seemed 
as  if  the  return  of  one  prosperous  child  gave 
joy  to  the  whole  landscape.  It  was  the  old 
country  the  same  as  ever,  —  old  Mother  Ire 
land  in  her  green  gown,  and  the  warm  heart 
of  her  ready  and  unf orgetting.  As  for  Nora, 


WHERE'S  NOKA*  77 

she  could  only  leave  a  wake  of  silver  six 
pences  behind  her,  and  when  these  were 
done,  a  duller  trail  of  ha'pennies ;  and  the 
air  was  full  of  blessings  as  she  passed  along 
the  road  to  Duukenny. 

By  this  time  Nora  had  stopped  talking  and 
laughing.  At  first  everybody  on  the  road 
seemed  like  her  near  relation,  but  the  last 
minutes  seemed  like  hours,  and  now  and  then 
a  tear  went  shining  down  her  cheek.  The 
old  man's  lips  were  moving,  —  he  was  saying 
a  prayer  without  knowing  it ;  they  were  al 
most  within  sight  of  home.  The  poor  little 
white  houses,  with  their  high  gable-ends  and 
weather-beaten  thatch,  that  stood  about  the 
fields  among  the  green  hedges ;  the  light 
shower  that  suddenly  fell  out  of  the  clear 
sky  overhead,  made  an  old  man's  heart  trem 
ble  in  his  breast.  Round  the  next  slope  of 
the  hill  they  should  see  the  old  place. 

The  wheel-track  stopped  where  you  turned 
off  to  go  to  the  Donahoe  farm,  but  no  old 
Mary  was  there  to  give  friendly  welcome.  The 
old  man  got  stiffly  down  from  the  side-car 
and  limped  past  the  gate  with  a  sigh ;  but 
Nora  hurried  ahead,  carrying  the  big  baby, 
not  because  he  could  n't  walk,  but  because  he 


78  WHERE'S  NORAt 

could.  The  young  son  had  inherited  his 
mother's  active  disposition,  and  would  run 
straight  away  like  a  spider  the  minute  his 
feet  were  set  to  the  ground.  Now  and 
then,  at  the  sight  of  a  bird  or  a  flower  in  the 
grass,  he  struggled  to  get  down.  "  Whisht, 
now  !  "  Nora  would  say ;  "  and  are  n't  you 
going  to  see  Granny  indeed  ?  Keep  aisy 
now,  darlin' ! " 

The  old  heart  and  the  young  heart  were 
beating  alike  as  these  exiles  followed  the  nar 
row  footpath  round  the  shoulder  of  the 
great  hill ;  they  could  hear  the  lambs  bleat 
and  the  tinkling  of  the  sheep-bells  that 
sweet  May  morning.  From  the  lower  hill 
side  came  the  sound  of  voices.  The  neigh 
bors  had  seen  them  pass,  and  were  calling 
to  each  other  across  the  fields.  Oh,  it  was 
home,  home !  the  sight  of  it,  and  the  smell 
of  the  salt  air  and  the  flowers  in  the  bog, 
the  look  of  the  early  white  mushrooms  in  the 
sod,  and  the  song  of  the  larks  overhead  and 
the  blackbirds  in  the  hedges !  Poor  Ireland 
was  gay-hearted  in  the  spring  weather,  and 
Nora  was  there  at  last.  "  Oh,  thank  God, 
we  're  safe  home  !  "  she  said  again.  "  Look, 
here 's  the  Wishing  Brook ;  d'  ye  mind  it  ?  " 
she  called  back  to  the  old  man. 


WHERE'S  NORAt  79 

"  I  mind  everything  the  day,  no  fear  for 
me,"  said  Patrick  Quin. 

The  great  hillside  before  them  sloped  up 
to  meet  the  blue  sky,  the  golden  gorse  spread 
its  splendid  tapestry  against  the  green  pas 
ture.  There  was  the  tiny  house,  the  one 
house  in  Ireland  for  Nora ;  its  very  windows 
watched  her  coming.  A  whiff  of  turf-smoke 
flickered  above  the  chimney,  the  white  walls 
were  as  white  as  the  clouds  above ;  there  was 
a  figure  moving  about  inside  the  house,  and 
a  bent  little  woman  in  her  white  frilled  cap 
and  a  small  red  shawl  pinned  about  her 
shoulders  came  and  stood  in  the  door. 

"  Oh,  me  mother,  me  mother ! "  cried 
Nora ;  then  she  dropped  the  baby  in  the 
soft  grass,  and  flew  like  a  pigeon  up  the  hill 
and  into  her  mother's  arms. 


VI. 

The  gossoon  was  equal  to  emergencies ; 
he  put  down  his  heavier  burden  of  goods 
and  picked  up  the  baby,  lest  it  might  run 
back  to  America.  "  God  be  praised,  what 's 
this  coming  afther  ye  ? "  exclaimed  the 
mother,  while  Nora,  weeping  for  joy,  ran 
past  her  into  the  house.  "  Oh,  God  bless 


80  WHERE'S  NORA? 

the  shild  that  I  thought  I  'd  never  see. 
Oh !  "  and  she  looked  again  at  the  stranger, 
the  breathless  old  man  with  the  thorn  stick, 
whom  everybody  had  left  behind.  "  'T  is 
me  brother  Patsy  !  Oh,  me  heart 's  broke 
wit'  joy !  "  and  she  fell  on  her  knees  among 
the  daisies. 

"  It 's  meself ,  then !  "  said  Mr.  Patrick 
Quin.  "  How  are  ye  the  day,  Mary  ?  I  al 
ways  t'ought  I  'd  see  home  again,  but 't  was 
Nora  enticed  me  now.  Johnny  O'Callahan's 
a  good  son  to  ye ;  he  'd  liked  well  to  come 
with  us,  but  he  gets  short  1'ave  on  the 
Road,  and  he  has  a  fine,  steady  job ;  he  '11 
see  after  the  business,  too,  while  we  're 
gone ;  no,  I  could  n't  let  the  two  childer 
cross  the  say  alone.  Coom  now,  don't  be 
sayin'  anny  more  prayers ;  sure,  we  '11  be 
sayin'  them  together  in  the  old  church  coom 
Sunday. 

"  There,  don't  cry,  Mary,  don't  cry,  now ! 
Coom  in  in  the  house !  Sure,  all  the  folks 
sint  their  remimbrance,  and  hoped  you  'd 
come  back  with  us  and  stay  a  long  while. 
That's  our  intintion,  too,  for  you,"  con 
tinued  Patrick,  none  the  less  tearful  himself 
because  he  was  so  full  of  fine  importance ; 
but  nobody  could  stop  to  listen  after  the 


WHERE  >S  NORA  t  81 

first  moment,  and  the  brother  and  sister 
were  both  crying  faster  than  they  could 
talk.  A  minute  later  the  spirit  of  the 
hostess  rose  to  her  great  occasion. 

"  Go,  chase  those  white  hins,"  Nora's 
mother  commanded  the  gossoon,  who  had 
started  back  to  bring  up  more  of  the  rich- 
looking  bundles  from  the  side-car.  "  Run 
them  up-hill  now,  or  they  '11  fly  down  to 
Kinmare.  Go  now,  while  I  stir  up  me  fire 
and  make  a  cup  o'  tay.  'T  is  the  laste  I  can 
do  whin  me  folks  is  afther  coming  so  far !  " 

"  God  save  all  here !  "  said  Uncle  Patsy 
devoutly,  as  he  stepped  into  the  house. 
There  sat  little  Nora  with  the  tired  baby  in 
her  arms ;  to  tell  the  truth,  she  was  crying 
now  for  lack  of  Johnny.  She  looked  pale, 
but  her  eyes  were  shining,  and  a  ray  of  sun 
light  fell  through  the  door  and  brightened 
her  red  hair.  She  looked  quite  beautiful 
and  radiant  as  she  sat  there. 

"  Well,  Nora,  ye  're  here,  ain't  you  ?  " 
said  the  old  man. 

"  Only  this  morning,"  said  the  mother, 
"  whin  I  opened  me  eyes  I  says  to  meself : 
'  Where 's  Nora  ?  '  says  I ;  '  she  do  be  so 
long  wit'out  writing  home  to  kne  ; '  look  at 
her  now  by  me  own  fire!  Wisha,  but 


82  WHERE  'S  NORA  * 

what 's  all  this  whillalu  and  stramach  down 
by  the  brook  ?  Oh,  see  now  !  the  folks  have 
got  word ;  all  the  folks  is  here  !  Coom  out 
to  them,  Nora ;  give  me  the  shild ;  coom 
out,  Patsy  boy  !  " 

"  Where  's  Nora  ?  Where  's  Nora  ?  "  they 
could  hear  the  loud  cry  coming,  as  all  the 
neighbors  hurried  up  the  hill. 


BOLD  WORDS  AT  THE  BRIDGE. 

I. 

" '  WELL,  now,'  says  I,  '  Mrs.  Con'ly,' 
says  I,  '  how  ever  you  may  tark,  't  is  nobody's 
business  and  I  wanting  to  plant  a  few  pump 
kins  for  me  cow  in  among  me  cabbages. 
I  've  got  the  right  to  plant  whatever  I  may 
choose,  if  it 's  the  divil  of  a  crop  of  t'istles 
in  the  middle  of  me  ground.'  '  No  ma'ain, 
you  ain't,'  says  Biddy  Con'ly ;  *  you  ain't  got 
anny  right  to  plant  t'istles  that 's  not  for  the 
public  good,'  says  she  ;  and  I  being  so  hasty 
wit'  me  timper,  I  shuk  me  fist  in  her  face 
then,  and  herself  shuk  her  fist  at  me.  Just 
then  Father  Brady  come  by,  as  luck  ardered, 
an'  recomminded  us  would  we  keep  the 
peace.  He  knew  well  I  'd  had  my  provo 
cation  ;  't  was  to  herself  he  spoke  first. 
You'd  think  she  owned  the  whole  corpora 
tion.  I  wished  I  'd  t'rown  her  over  into  the 
wather,  so  I  did,  before  he  come  by  at  all. 
'T  was  on  the  bridge  the  two  of  us  were. 
I  was  stepping  home  by  meself  very  quiet 


84          BOLD    WORDS  AT   THE  BRIDGE. 

in  the  afthernoon  to  put  me  tay-kittle  on 
for  supper,  and  herself  overtook  me,  —  ain't 
she  the  bold  thing ! 

"  '  How  are  you  the  day,  Mrs.  Dunl'avy  ? ' 
says  she,  so  mincin'  an'  preenin',  and  I  knew 
well  she  'd  put  her  mind  on  having  words 
wit'  me  from  that  minute.  I  'm  one  that 
likes  to  have  peace  in  the  neighborhood,  if 
it  wa'n't  for  the  likes  of  her,  that  makes  the 
top  of  me  head  lift  and  clat'  wit'  rage  like  a 
pot-lid!" 

"  What  was  the  matter  with  the  two  of 
you  ?  "  asked  a  listener,  with  simple  interest. 

"  Faix  indeed,  't  was  herself  had  a  thrifle 
of  melons  planted  the  other  side  of  the 
fince,"  acknowledged  Mrs.  Dunleavy.  "  She 
said  the  pumpkins  would  be  the  ruin  of  them 
intirely.  I  says,  and  'twas  thrue  for  me, 
that  I  'd  me  pumpkins  planted  the  week 
before  she  'd  dropped  anny  old  melon  seed 
into  the  ground,  and  the  same  bein'  already 
dwining  from  so  manny  bugs.  Oh,  but 
she  's  blackhearted  to  give  me  the  lie  about 
it,  and  say  those  poor  things  was  all  up, 
and  she  'd  thrown  lime  on  'em  to  keep  away 
their  inemies  when  she  first  see  me  come 
out  betune  me  cabbage  rows.  How  well  she 
knew  what  I  might  be  doing !  Me  cab- 


BOLD    WORDS   AT   THE   BRIDGE.  85 

bages  grows  far  apart  and  I  'd  plinty  of 
room,  and  if  a  pumpkin  vine  gets  attention 
you  can  entice  it  wherever  you  pl'ase  and 
it'll  grow  fine  and  long,  while  the  poor 
cabbages  ates  and  grows  fat  and  round,  and 
no  harm  to  annybody,  but  she  must  pick  a 
quarrel  with  a  quiet  'oman  in  the  face  of 
every  one. 

"  We  were  on  the  bridge,  don't  you  see, 
and  plinty  was  passing  by  with  their  grins, 
and  loitering  and  stopping  afther  they  were 
behind  her  back  to  hear  what  was  going  on 
betune  us.  Annybody  does  be  liking  to  get 
the  sound  of  loud  talk  an'  they  having 
nothing  better  to  do.  Biddy  Con'ly,  seeing 
she  was  well  watched,  got  the  airs  of  a 
pr'acher,  and  set  down  whatever  she  might 
happen  to  be  carrying  and  tried  would  she 
get  the  better  of  me  for  the  sake  of  their 
admiration.  Oh,  but  wa'n't  she  all  drabbled 
and  wet  from  the  roads,  and  the  world 
knows  meself  for  a  very  tidy  walker  ! 

" '  Clane  the  mud  from  your  shoes  if 
you  're  going  to  dance  ; '  't  was  all  I  said  to 
her,  and  she  being  that  mad  she  did  be  step 
ping  up  and  down  like  an  old  turkey-hin, 
and  shaking  her  fist  all  the  time  at  me. 
4  Coom  now,  Biddy,'  says  I,  '  what  put  you 


86          BOLD    WORDS   AT   THE   BRIDGE. 

out  so  ? '  says  I.  *  Sure,  it  creeps  me  skin 
when  I  looks  at  you !  Is  the  pig  dead,'  says 
I,  '  or  anny  little  thing  happened  to  you, 
ma'am  ?  Sure  this  is  far  beyond  the  rights 
of  a  few  pumpkin  seeds  that  has  just  cleared 
the  ground  ! '  and  all  the  folks  laughed.  I  'd 
no  call  to  have  tark  with  Biddy  Con'ly  be 
fore  them  idle  b'ys  and  gerrls,  nor  to  let  the 
two  of  us  become  their  laughing-stock.  I 
tuk  up  me  basket,  being  ashamed  then,  and 
I  meant  to  go  away,  mad  as  I  was.  '  Coom, 
Mrs.  Con'ly ! '  says  I,  '  let  bygones  be  by 
gones  ;  what 's  all  this  whillalu  we  're  af  ther 
having  about  nothing  ? '  says  I  very  pleasant. 
" '  May  the  divil  fly  away  with  you,  Mary 
Dunl'avy ! '  says  she  then,  '  spoiling  me  gar 
den  ground,  as  every  one  can  see,  and  full  of 
your  bold  talk.  I  '11  let  me  hens  out  into  it 
this  afternoon,  so  I  will,'  says  she,  and  a 
good  deal  more.  *  Hold  off,'  says  I,  '  and 
remember  what  fell  to  your  aunt  one  day 
when  she  sint  her  hins  in  to  pick  a  neigh 
bor's  piece,  and  while  her  own  back  was 
turned  they  all  come  home  and  had  every 
sprouted  bean  and  potatie  heeled  out  in  the 
hot  sun,  and  all  her  fine  lettuces  picked  into 
Irish  lace.  We  've  lived  neighbors,'  says  I, 
*  thirteen  years,'  says  I  ;  '  and  we  've  often 


BOLD    WORDS  AT   THE  BRIDGE.          87 

had  words  together  above  the  fince,'  says  I, 
4  but  we  're  neighbors  yet,  and  we  Ve  no  call 
to  stand  here  in  such  spectacles  and  dis 
gracing  ourselves  and  each  other.  Coom, 
Biddy,'  says  I,  again,  going  away  with  me 
basket  and  renumbering  Father  Brady's 
caution  whin  it  was  too  late.  Some  o'  the 
b'ys  went  off  too,  thinkin'  't  was  all  done. 

"  *  I  don't  want  auny  o'  your  Coom  Biddy's,' 
says  she,  stepping  at  me,  with  a  black  stripe 
across  her  face,  she  was  that  destroyed  with 
rage,  and  I  stepped  back  and  held  up  me 
basket  between  us,  she  being  bigger  than 
I,  and  I  getting  no  chance,  and  herself 
slipped  and  fell,  and  her  nose  got  a  clout 
with  the  hard  edge  of  the  basket,  it  would 
trouble  the  saints  to  say  how,  and  then  I 
picked  her  up  and  wint  home  with  her  to 
thry  and  quinch  the  blood.  Sure  I  was 
sorry  for  the  crathur  an'  she  having  such  a 
timper  boiling  in  her  heart. 

"  '  Look  at  you  now,  Mrs.  Con'ly,'  says  I, 
kind  of  soft,  *  you  'ont  be  fit  for  mass  these 
two  Sundays  with  a  black  eye  like  this,  and 
your  face  arl  scratched,  and  every  bliguard 
has  gone  the  lingth  of  the  town  to  tell  tales 
of  us.  I  'm  a  quiet  'oman,'  says  I, '  and  I 
don't  thank  you,'  says  I,  whin  the  blood  was 


88          BOLD    WORDS   AT   THE   BRIDGE. 

stopped,  — '  no,  I  don't  thank  you  for  dis- 
gracin'  an  old  neighbor  like  me.  'T  is  of  our 
prayers  and  the  grave  we  should  be  thinkin', 
and  not  be  having  bold  words  on  the  bridge.' 
Wisha !  but  I  fought  I  was  after  spaking 
very  quiet,  and  up  she  got  and  caught  up 
the  basket,  and  I  dodged  it  by  good  luck, 
but  after  that  I  walked  off  and  left  her  to 
satisfy  her  foolishness  with  b'ating  the  wall 
if  it  pl'ased  her.  I  'd  no  call  for  her  com 
pany  anny  more,  and  I  took  a  vow  I  'd  never 
spake  a  word  to  her  again  while  the  world 
stood.  So  all  is  over  since  then  betune 
Biddy  Con'ly  and  me.  No,  I  don't  look  at 
her  at  aU  !  " 

II. 

Some  time  afterward,  in  late  summer, 
Mrs.  Dunleavy  stood,  large  and  noisy,  but 
generous-hearted,  addressing  some  remarks 
from  her  front  doorway  to  a  goat  on  the 
sidewalk.  He  was  pulling  some  of  her  cher 
ished  foxgloves  through  the  picket  fence,  and 
eagerly  devouring  their  flowery  stalks. 

"  How  well  you  rache  through  an  honest 
fince,  you  black  pirate !  "  she  shouted  ;  but 
finding  that  harsh  words  had  no  effect,  she 
took  a  convenient  broom,  and  advanced  to 


BOLD  WORDS  AT  THE  BRIDGE.    89 

strike  a  gallant  blow  upon  the  creature's 
back.  This  had  the  simple  effect  of  mak 
ing  him  step  a  little  to  one  side  and  modestly 
begin  to  nibble  at  a  tuft  of  grass. 

"  Well,  if  I  ain't  plagued ! "  said  Mrs. 
Dunleavy  sorrowfully  ;  "  if  I  ain't  throubled 
with  every  wild  baste,  and  me  cow  that  was 
some  use  gone  dry  very  unexpected,  and  a 
neighbor  that 's  worse  than  none  at  all.  I  've 
nobody  to  have  an  honest  word  with,  and  the 
morning  being  so  fine  and  pleasant.  Faix, 
I'd  move  away  from  it,  if  there  was  anny 
place  I  'd  enjoy  better.  I  've  no  heart  ex 
cept  for  me  garden,  me  poor  little  crops  is 
doing  so  well ;  thanks  be  to  God,  me  cab 
bages  is  very  fine.  There  does  be  those  that 
overlooked  me  pumpkins  for  the  poor  cow ; 
they  're  no  size  at  all  wit'  so  much  rain." 

The  two  small  white  houses  stood  close 
together,  with  their  little  gardens  behind 
them.  The  road  was  just  in  front,  and  led 
down  to  a  stone  bridge  which  crossed  the 
river  to  the  busy  manufacturing  village  be 
yond.  The  air  was  fresh  and  cool  at  that 
early  hour,  the  wind  had  changed  after  a 
season  of  dry,  hot  weather ;  it  was  just  the 
morning  for  a  good  bit  of  gossip  with  a 
neighbor,  but  summer  was  almost  done,  and 


90         BOLD    WORDS  AT  THE  BRIDGE. 

the  friends  were  not  reconciled.  Their  re 
spective  acquaintances  had  grown  tired  of 
hearing  the  story  of  the  quarrel,  and  the 
novelty  of  such  a  pleasing  excitement  had 
long  been  over.  Mrs.  Connelly  was  thump 
ing  away  at  a  handful  of  belated  ironing, 
and  Mrs.  Dunleavy,  estranged  and  solitary, 
sighed  as  she  listened  to  the  iron.  She  was 
sociable  by  nature,  and  she  had  an  impulse 
to  go  in  and  sit  down  as  she  used  at  the  end 
of  the  ironing  table. 

"  Wisha,  the  poor  thing  is  mad  at  me  yet, 
I  know  that  from  the  sounds  of  her  iron ; 
't  was  a  shame  for  her  to  go  picking  a  quar 
rel  with  the  likes  of  me,"  and  Mrs.  Dun 
leavy  sighed  heavily  and  stepped  down  into 
her  flower-plot  to  pull  the  distressed  foxgloves 
back  into  their  places  inside  the  fence.  The 
seed  had  been  sent  her  from  the  old  country, 
and  this  was  the  first  year  they  had  come 
into  full  bloom.  She  had  been  hoping  that 
the  sight  of  them  would  melt  Mrs.  Connelly's 
heart  into  some  expression  of  friendliness, 
since  they  had  come  from  adjoining  parishes 
in  old  County  Kerry.  The  goat  lifted  his 
head,  and  gazed  at  his  enemy  with  mild  in 
terest  ;  he  was  pasturing  now  by  the  road 
side,  and  the  foxgloves  had  proved  bitter  in 
his  mouth. 


BOLD    WORDS  AT   THE  BRIDGE.         91 

Mrs.  Dunleavy  stood  looking  at  him  over 
the  fence,  glad  of  even  a  goat's  company. 

"  Go  'long  there  ;  see  that  fine  little  tuft 
ahead  now,"  she  advised  him,  forgetful  of 
his  depredations.  "  Oh,  to  think  I  've  no 
body  to  spake  to,  the  day !  " 

At  that  moment  a  woman  came  in  sight 
round  the  turn  of  the  road.  She  was  a 
stranger,  a  fellow  country-woman,  and  she 
carried  a  large  newspaper  bundle  and  a 
heavy  handbag.  Mrs.  Dunleavy  stepped 
out  of  the  flower-bed  toward  the  gate,  and 
waited  there  until  the  stranger  came  up  and 
stopped  to  ask  a  question. 

"  Ann  Bogan  don't  live  here,  do  she  ?  " 

"  She  don't,"  answered  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  with  dignity. 

"  I  fought  she  did  n't ;  you  don't  know 
where  she  lives,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Dunleavy. 

"  I  don't  know  ayther  ;  niver  mind,  I  '11 
find  her ;  't  is  a  fine  day,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Dunleavy  could  hardly  bear  to  let 
the  stranger  go  away.  She  watched  her  far 
down  the  hill  toward  the  bridge  before  she 
turned  to  go  into  the  house.  She  seated 
herself  by  the  side  window  next  Mrs.  Con 
nelly's,  and  gave  herself  to  her  thoughts. 


92         BOLD    WORDS  AT   THE  BRIDGE. 

The  sound  of  the  flatiron  had  stopped  when 
the  traveler  came  to  the  gate,  and  it  had 
not  begun  again.  Mrs.  Connelly  had  gone 
to  her  front  door ;  the  hem  of  her  calico 
dress  could  be  plainly  seen,  and  the  bulge 
of  her  apron,  and  she  was  watching  the 
stranger  quite  out  of  sight.  She  even  came 
out  to  the  doorstep,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  many  weeks  looked  with  friendly  intent 
toward  her  neighbor's  house.  Then  she 
also  came  and  sat  down  at  her  side  window. 
Mrs.  Dunleavy's  heart  began  to  leap  with 
excitement. 

"  Bad  cess  to  her  foolishness,  she  does  be 
afther  wanting  to  come  round ;  I  '11  not 
make  it  too  aisy  for  her,"  said  Mrs.  Dun- 
leavy,  seizing  a  piece  of  sewing  and  for 
bearing  to  look  up.  "  I  don't  know  who 
Ann  Bogan  is,  annyway ;  perhaps  herself 
does,  having  lived  in  it  five  or  six  years 
longer  than  me.  Perhaps  she  knew  this 
woman  by  her  looks,  and  the  heart  is  out  of 
her  with  wanting  to  know  what  she  asked 
from  me.  She  can  sit  there,  then,  and  let 
her  irons  grow  cold  ! 

"There  was  Bogans  living  down  by  the 
brick  mill  when  I  first  come  here,  neighbors 
to  Flaherty's  folks,"  continued  Mrs.  Dun- 


BOLD    WORDS  AT  THE  BRIDGE.         93 

leavy,  more  and  more  aggrieved.  "  Biddy 
Con'ly  ought  to  know  the  Flahertys,  they 
being  her  cousins.  'T  was  a  fine  loud-talk 
ing  'oman ;  sure  Biddy  might  well  enough 
have  heard  her  inquiring  of  me,  and  have 
stepped  out,  and  said  if  she  knew  Ann 
Bogan,  and  satisfied  a  poor  stranger  that 
was  hunting  the  town  over.  No,  I  don't 
know  anny  one  in  the  name  of  Ann  Bogan, 
so  I  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Dunleavy  aloud, 
"  and  there 's  nobody  I  can  ask  a  civil  ques 
tion,  with  every  one  that  ought  to  be  me 
neighbors  stopping  their  mouths,  and  keep 
ing  black  grudges  whin  't  was  meself  got  all 
the  offince." 

"  Faix  't  was  meself  got  the  whack  on  me 
nose,"  responded  Mrs.  Connelly  quite  unex 
pectedly.  She  was  looking  squarely  at  the 
window  where  Mrs.  Dunleavy  sat  behind 
the  screen  of  blue  mosquito  netting.  They 
were  both  conscious  that  Mrs.  Connelly 
made  a  definite  overture  of  peace. 

"  That  one  was  a  very  civil-spoken  'oman 
that  passed  by  just  now,"  announced  Mrs. 
Dunleavy,  handsomely  waiving  the  subject 
of  the  quarrel  and  coming  frankly  to  the 
subject  of  present  interest.  "  Faix,  't  is  a 
poor  day  for  Ann  Bogans ;  she  '11  find  that 
out  before  she  gets  far  in  the  place." 


94         BOLD    WORDS  AT   THE  BRIDGE. 

"  Ann  Bogans  was  plinty  here  once,  then, 
God  rest  them!  There  was  two  Ann 
Bogans,  mother  and  daughter,  lived  down 
by  Flaherty's  when  I  first  come  here.  They 
died  in  the  one  year,  too ;  't  is  most  thirty 
years  ago,"  said  Bridget  Connelly,  in  her 
most  friendly  tone. 

"  '  I  '11  find  her,'  says  the  poor  'oman  as 
if  she  'd  only  to  look ;  indeed,  she  's  got  the 
boldness,"  reported  Mary  Dunleavy,  peace 
being  fully  restored. 

"  'T  was  to  Flaherty's  she  'd  go  first,  and 
they  all  moved  to  La'rence  twelve  years  ago, 
and  all  she  '11  get  from  anny  one  would  be 
the  address  of  the  cimet'ry.  There  was 
plenty  here  knowing  to  Ann  Bogan  once. 
That  'oman  is  one  I  've  seen  long  ago,  but  I 
can't  name  her  yet.  Did  she  say  who  she 
was  ?  "  asked  the  neighbor. 

"  She  did  n't ;  I  'm  sorry  for  the  poor 
'oman,  too,"  continued  Mrs.  Dunleavy,  in 
the  same  spirit  of  friendliness.  "  She  'd  the 
expectin'  look  of  one  who  came  hoping  to 
make  a  nice  visit  and  find  friends,  and  her 
self  lugging  a  fine  bundle.  She  'd  the  looks 
as  if  she  'd  lately  come  out ;  very  decent, 
but  old-fashioned.  Her  bonnet  was  made  at 
home  annyways,  did  ye  mind  ?  I  '11  lay  it 


BOLD    WORDS  AT  THE  BRIDGE.         95 

was  bought  in  Cork  when  it  was  new,  or 
maybe  'twas  from  a  good  shop  in  Bantry 
or  Kinmare,  or  some  o'  those  old  places.  If 
she  'd  seemed  satisfied  to  wait,  I  'd  made 
her  the  offer  of  a  cup  of  tay,  but  off  she 
wint  with  great  courage." 

"  I  don't  know  but  I  '11  slip  on  me  bonnet 
in  the  afthernoon  and  go  find  her,"  said 
Biddy  Connelly,  with  hospitable  warmth. 
"  I  've  seen  her  before,  perhaps  't  was  long 
whiles  ago  at  home." 

"  Indeed  I  thought  of  it  myself,"  said 
Mrs.  Dunleavy,  with  approval.  "  We  'd 
best  wait,  perhaps,  till  she  'd  be  coming 
back ;  there 's  no  train  now  till  three  o'clock. 
She  might  stop  here  till  the  five,  and  we  '11 
find  out  all  about  her.  She  '11  have  a  very 
lonesome  day,  whoiver  she  is.  Did  you  see 
that  old  goat  'ating  the  best  of  me  fairy- 
fingers  that  all  bloomed  the  day?"  she  asked 
eagerly,  afraid  that  the  conversation  might 
come  to  an  end  at  any  moment ;  but  Mrs. 
Connelly  took  no  notice  of  so  trivial  a  sub 
ject. 

"  Me  melons  is  all  getting  ripe,"  she 
announced,  with  an  air  of  satisfaction. 
"  There 's  a  big  one  must  be  ate  now  while 
We  can ;  it 's  down  in  the  cellar  cooling  itself, 


96          BOLD    WORDS  AT  THE  BRIDGE. 

an'  I  'd  like  to  be  dropping  it,  getting  down 
the  stairs.  'Twas  afther  picking  it  I  was 
before  breakfast,  itself  having  begun  to 
crack  open.  Himself  was  the  b'y  that  loved 
a  melon,  an'  I  ain't  got  the  heart  to  look 
at  it  alone.  Coom  over,  will  ye,  Mary  ?  " 

"  'Deed  then  an'  I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Dun- 
leavy,  whose  face  was  close  against  the  mos 
quito  netting.  "  Them  old  pumpkin  vines 
was  no  good  anny  way ;  did  you  see  how 
one  of  them  had  the  invintion,  and  wint 
away  up  on  the  fince  entirely  wit'  its  great 
flowers,  an'  there  come  a  rain  on  'em,  and 
so  they  all  blighted  ?  I  'd  no  call  to  grow 
such  stramming  great  things  in  my  piece 
annyway,  'ating  up  all  the  goodness  from 
me  beautiful  cabbages." 


III. 

That  afternoon  the  reunited  friends  sat 
banqueting  together  and  keeping  an  eye  on 
the  road.  They  had  so  much  to  talk  over 
and  found  each  other  so  agreeable  that  it 
was  impossible  to  dwell  with  much  regret 
upon  the  long  estrangement.  When  the 
melon  was  only  half  finished  the  stranger  of 
the  morning,  with  her  large  unopened  bun- 


BOLD    WORDS  AT  THE  BRIDGE.         97 

die  and  the  heavy  handbag,  was  seen  mak. 
ing  her  way  up  the  hill.  She  wore  such  a 
weary  and  disappointed  look  that  she  was 
accosted  and  invited  in  by  both  the  women, 
and  being  proved  by  Mrs.  Connelly  to  be  an 
old  acquaintance,  she  joined  them  at  their 
feast. 

"  Yes,  I  was  here  seventeen  years  ago  for 
the  last  time,"  she  explained.  "  I  was  work 
ing  in  Lawrence,  and  I  came  over  and  spent 
a  fortnight  with  Honora  Flaherty ;  then  I 
wint  home  that  year  to  mind  me  old  mother, 
and  she  lived  to  past  ninety.  I  'd  nothing  to 
keep  me  then,  and  I  was  always  homesick 
afther  America,  so  back  I  come  to  it,  but  all 
me  old  frinds  and  neighbors  is  changed  and 
gone.  Faix,  this  is  the  first  welcome  I  've 
got  yet  from  anny  one.  'Tis  a  beautiful 
welcome,  too,  —  I  '11  get  me  apron  out  of  me 
bundle,  by  your  1'ave,  Mrs.  Con'ly.  You  've 
a  strong  resemblance  to  Flaherty's  folks, 
dear,  being  cousins.  Well,  't  is  a  fine  thing 
to  have  good  neighbors.  You  an'  Mrs. 
Dunleavy  is  very  pleasant  here  so  close 
together." 

"  Well,  we  does  be  having  a  hasty  word 
now  and  then,  ma'am,"  confessed  Mrs.  Dun 
leavy,  "  but  ourselves  is  good  neighbors  this 


98         BOLD    WORDS  AT  THE  BRIDGE. 

manny  years.  Whin  a  quarrel 's  about  no 
thing  betune  friends,  it  don't  count  for 
much,  so  it  don't." 

"  Most  quarrels  is  the  same  way,"  said  the 
stranger,  who  did  not  like  melons,  but  ac 
cepted  a  cup  of  hot  tea.  "  Sure,  it  always 
takes  two  to  make  a  quarrel,  and  but  one  to 
end  it ;  that 's  what  me  mother  always  told 
me,  that  never  gave  anny  one  a  cross  word 
in  her  life." 

"Tis  a  beautiful  melon,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Dunleavy  for  the  seventh  time.  "  Sure,  I  '11 
plant  a  few  seed  myself  next  year ;  me 
pumpkins  is  no  good  afther  all  me  foolish 
pride  wit'  'em.  Maybe  the  land  don't  suit 
'em,  but  glory  be  to  God,  me  cabbages  is 
the  size  of  the  house,  an'  you  '11  git  the  pick 
of  the  best,  Mrs.  Con'ly." 

"  What 's  melons  betune  friends,  or  cab 
bages  ayther,  that  they  should  ever  make 
any  trouble?  "  answered  Mrs.  Connelly 
handsomely,  and  the  great  feud  was  forever 
ended. 

But  the  stranger,  innocent  that  she  was 
the  harbinger  of  peace,  could  hardly  under 
stand  why  Bridget  Connelly  insisted  upon 
her  staying  all  night  and  talking  over  old 
times,  and  why  the  two  women  put  on  their 


BOLD    WORDS  AT  THE  BRIDGE.         99 

bonnets  and  walked,  one  on  either  hand, 
to  see  the  town  with  her  that  evening.  As 
they  crossed  the  bridge  they  looked  at  each 
other  shyly,  and  then  began  to  laugh. 

"  Well,  I  missed  it  the  most  on  Sundays 
going  all  alone  to  mass,"  confessed  Mary 
Dunleavy.  "  I  'm  glad  there  's  no  one  here 
seeing  us  go  over,  so  I  am." 

"  'T  was  ourselves  had  bold  words  at  the 
bridge,  once,  that  we  've  got  the  laugh  about 
now,"  explained  Mrs.  Connelly  politely  to 
the  stranger. 


MAETHA'S  LADY. 

I. 

ONE  day,  many  years  ago,  the  old  Judge 
Pyne  house  wore  an  unwonted  look  of  gay- 
ety  and  youthfulness.  The  high-fenced 
green  garden  was  bright  with  June  flowers. 
Under  the  elms  in  the  large  shady  front 
yard  you  might  see  some  chairs  placed  near 
together,  as  they  often  used  to  be  when  the 
family  were  all  at  home  and  life  was  going 
on  gayly  with  eager  talk  and  pleasure-mak 
ing  ;  when  the  elder  judge,  the  grandfather, 
used  to  quote  that  great  author,  Dr.  Johnson, 
and  say  to  his  girls,  "  Be  brisk,  be  splendid, 
and  be  public." 

One  of  the  chairs  had  a  crimson  silk 
shawl  thrown  carelessly  over  its  straight  back, 
and  a  passer-by,  who  looked  in  through  the 
latticed  gate  between  the  tall  gate-posts  with 
their  white  urns,  might  think  that  this  piece 
of  shining  East  Indian  color  was  a  huge  red 
lily  that  had  suddenly  bloomed  against  the 
syringa  bush.  There  were  certain  windows 


MARTHAS  LADY.  101 

thrown  wide  open  that  were  usually  shut, 
and  their  curtains  were  blowing  free  in  the 
light  wind  of  a  summer  afternoon  ;  it  looked 
as  if  a  large  household  had  returned  to  the 
old  house  to  fill  the  prim  best  rooms  and  find 
them  full  of  cheer. 

It  was  evident  to  every  one  in  town  that 
Miss  Harriet  Pyne,  to  use  the  village  phrase, 
had  company.  She  was  the  last  of  her  fam 
ily,  and  was  by  no  means  old ;  but  being  the 
last,  and  wonted  to  live  with  people  much 
older  than  herself,  she  had  formed  all  the 
habits  of  a  serious  elderly  person.  Ladies 
of  her  age,  something  past  thirty,  often  wore 
discreet  caps  in  those  days,  especially  if  they 
were  married,  but  being  single,  Miss  Har 
riet  clung  to  youth  in  this  respect,  making 
the  one  concession  of  keeping  her  waving 
chestnut  hair  as  smooth  and  stiffly  arranged 
as  possible.  She  had  been  the  dutiful  com 
panion  of  her  father  and  mother  in  their 
latest  years,  all  her  elder  brothers  and  sisters 
having  married  and  gone,  or  died  and  gone, 
out  of  the  old  house.  Now  that  she  was  left 
alone  it  seemed  quite  the  best  thing  frankly 
to  accept  the  fact  of  age,  and  to  turn  more 
resolutely  than  ever  to  the  companionship  of 
duty  and  serious  books.  She  was  more  seri- 


102  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

ous  and  given  to  routine  than  her  elders 
themselves,  as  sometimes  happened  when  the 
daughters  of  New  England  gentlefolks  were 
brought  up  wholly  in  the  society  of  their 
elders.  At  thirty-five  she  had  more  reluc 
tance  than  her  mother  to  face  an  unfore 
seen  occasion,  certainly  more  than  her  grand 
mother,  who  had  preserved  some  cheerful 
inheritance  of  gayety  and  worldliness  from 
colonial  times. 

There  was  something  about  the  look  of 
the  crimson  silk  shawl  in  the  front  yard  to 
make  one  suspect  that  the  sober  customs  of 
the  best  house  in  a  quiet  New  England  vil 
lage  were  all  being  set  at  defiance,  and  once 
when  the  mistress  of  the  house  came  to  stand 
in  her  own  doorway,  she  wore  the  pleased  but 
somewhat  apprehensive  look  of  a  guest.  In 
these  days  New  England  life  held  the  neces 
sity  of  much  dignity  and  discretion  of  behav 
ior  ;  there  was  the  truest  hospitality  and  good 
cheer  in  all  occasional  festivities,  but  it  was 
sometimes  a  self-conscious  hospitality,  fol 
lowed  by  an  inexorable  return  to  asceticism 
both  of  diet  and  of  behavior.  Miss  Har 
riet  Pyne  belonged  to  the  very  dullest  days 
of  New  England,  those  which  perhaps  held 
the  most  priggishness  for  the  learned  pro- 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  103 

fessions,  the  most  limited  interpretation  of 
the  word  "  evangelical,"  and  the  pettiest  in 
difference  to  large  things.  The  outbreak  of 
a  desire  for  larger  religious  freedom  caused 
at  first  a  most  determined  reaction  toward 
formalism,  especially  in  small  and  quiet  vil 
lages  like  Ashford,  intently  busy  with  their 
own  concerns.  It  was  high  time  for  a  little 
leaven  to  begin  its  work,  in  this  moment 
when  the  great  impulses  of  the  war  for  lib 
erty  had  died  away  and  those  of  the  coming 
war  for  patriotism  and  a  new  freedom  had 
hardly  yet  begun. 

The  dull  interior,  the  changed  life  of  the 
old  house,  whose  former  activities  seemed  to 
have  fallen  sound  asleep,  really  typified  these 
larger  conditions,  and  a  little  leaven  had 
made  its  easily  recognized  appearance  in  the 
shape  of  a  light-hearted  girl.  She  was  Miss 
Harriet's  young  Boston  cousin,  Helena  Ver- 
non,  who,  half-amused  and  half-impatient 
at  the  unnecessary  sober-mindedness  of  her 
hostess  and  of  Ashford  in  general,  had  set 
herself  to  the  difficult  task  of  gayety.  Cousin 
Harriet  looked  on  at  a  succession  of  ingen 
ious  and,  on  the  whole,  innocent  attempts  at 
pleasure,  as  she  might  have  looked  on  at  the 


104  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

frolics  of  a  kitten  who  easily  substitutes  a 
ball  of  yarn  for  the  uncertainties  of  a  bird 
or  a  wind-blown  leaf,  and  who  may  at  any 
moment  ravel  the  fringe  of  a  sacred  curtain- 
tassel  in  preference  to  either. 

Helena,  with  her  mischievous  appealing 
eyes,  with  her  enchanting  old  songs  and  her 
guitar,  seemed  the  more  delightful  and  even 
reasonable  because  she  was  so  kind  to  every 
body,  and  because  she  was  a  beauty.  She 
had  the  gift  of  most  charming  manners. 
There  was  all  the  unconscious  lovely  ease 
and  grace  that  had  come  with  the  good  breed 
ing  of  her  city  home,  where  many  pleasant 
people  came  and  went ;  she  had  no  fear,  one 
had  almost  said  no  respect,  of  the  individual, 
and  she  did  not  need  to  think  of  herself. 
Cousin  Harriet  turned  cold  with  apprehen 
sion  when  she  saw  the  minister  coming  in  at 
the  front  gate,  and  wondered  in  agony  if 
Martha  were  properly  attired  to  go  to  the 
door,  and  would  by  any  chance  hear  the 
knocker ;  it  was  Helena  who,  delighted  to 
have  anything  happen,  ran  to  the  door  to 
welcome  the  Reverend  Mr.  Crofton  as  if  he 
were  a  congenial  friend  of  her  own  age. 
She  could  behave  with  more  or  less  propriety 
during  the  stately  first  visit,  and  even  con- 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  105 

trive  to  lighten  it  with  modest  mirth,  and  to 
extort  the  confession  that  the  guest  had  a 
tenor  voice,  though  sadly  out  of  practice  ; 
but  when  the  minister  departed  a  little  flat 
tered,  and  hoping  that  he  had  not  expressed 
himself  too  strongly  for  a  pastor  upon  the 
poems  of  Emerson,  and  feeling  the  unusual 
stir  of  gallantry  in  his  proper  heart,  it  was 
Helena  who  caught  the  honored  hat  of  the 
late  Judge  Pyne  from  its  last  resting-place 
in  the  hall,  and  holding  it  securely  in  both 
hands,  mimicked  the  minister's  self-conscious 
entrance.  She  copied  his  pompous  and  anx 
ious  expression  in  the  dim  parlor  in  such 
delicious  fashion  that  Miss  Harriet,  who 
could  not  always  extinguish  a  ready  spark 
of  the  original  sin  of  humor,  laughed  aloud. 

"  My  dear  !  "  she  exclaimed  severely  the 
next  moment,  "  I  am  ashamed  of  your  be 
ing  so  disrespectful !  "  and  then  laughed 
again,  and  took  the  affecting  old  hat  and 
carried  it  back  to  its  place. 

"  I  would  not  have  had  any  one  else  see 
you  for  the  world,"  she  said  sorrowfully  as 
she  returned,  feeling  quite  self-possessed 
again,  to  the  parlor  doorway ;  but  Helena 
still  sat  in  the  minister's  chair,  with  her 
small  feet  placed  as  his  stiff  boots  had  been, 


106  MARTHA'S   LADY. 

and  a  copy  of  his  solemn  expression  before 
they  came  to  speaking  of  Emerson  and  of 
the  guitar.  "  I  wish  I  had  asked  him  if  he 
would  be  so  kind  as  to  climb  the  cherry- 
tree,"  said  Helena,  unbending  a  little  at  the 
discovery  that  her  cousin  would  consent  to 
laugh  no  more.  "  There  are  all  those  ripe 
cherries  on  the  top  branches.  I  can  climb 
as  high  as  he,  but  I  can't  reach  far  enough 
from  the  last  branch  that  will  bear  me. 
The  minister  is  so  long  and  thin  "  — 

"I  don't  know  what  Mr.  Crofton  would 
have  thought  of  you;  he  is  a  very  serious 
young  man,"  said  cousin  Harriet,  still 
ashamed  of  her  laughter.  "  Martha  will  get 
the  cherries  for  you,  or  one  of  the  men.  I 
should  not  like  to  have  Mr.  Crofton  think 
you  were  frivolous,  a  young  lady  of  your 
opportunities  "  —  but  Helena  had  escaped 
through  the  hall  and  out  at  the  garden  door 
at  the  mention  of  Martha's  name.  Miss 
Harriet  Pyne  sighed  anxiously,  and  then 
smiled,  in  spite  of  her  deep  convictions,  as 
she  shut  the  blinds  and  tried  to  make  the 
house  look  solemn  again. 

The  front  door  might  be  shut,  but  the 
garden  door  at  the  other  end  of  the  broad 
hall  was  wide  open  upon  the  large  sunshiny 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  107 

garden,  where  the  last  of  the  red  and  white 
peonies  and  the  golden  lilies,  and  the  first 
of  the  tall  blue  larkspurs  lent  their  colors  in 
generous  fashion.  The  straight  box  borders 
were  all  in  fresh  and  shining  green  of  their 
new  leaves,  and  there  was  a  fragrance  of  the 
old  garden's  inmost  life  and  soul  blowing 
from  the  honeysuckle  blossoms  on  a  long  trel 
lis.  It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon,  and 
the  sun  was  low  behind  great  apple-trees  at 
the  garden's  end,  which  threw  their  shadows 
over  the  short  turf  of  the  bleaching-green. 
The  cherry-trees  stood  at  one  side  in  full  sun 
shine,  and  Miss  Harriet,  who  presently  came 
to  the  garden  steps  to  watch  like  a  hen  at 
the  water's  edge,  saw  her  cousin's  pretty 
figure  in  its  white  dress  of  India  muslin  hur 
rying  across  the  grass.  She  was  accompa 
nied  by  the  tall,  ungainly  shape  of  Martha 
the  new  maid,  who,  dull  and  indifferent  to 
every  one  else,  showed  a  surprising  willing 
ness  and  allegiance  to  the  young  guest. 

"  Martha  ought  to  be  in  the  dining-room, 
already,  slow  as  she  is ;  it  wants  but  half 
an  hour  of  tea-time,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  as 
she  turned  and  went  into  the  shaded  house. 
It  was  Martha's  duty  to  wait  at  table, 
and  there  had  been  many  trying  scenes 


108  MARTHA'S   LADY. 

and  defeated  efforts  toward  her  education. 
Martha  was  certainly  very  clumsy,  and  she 
seemed  the  clumsier  because  she  had  replaced 
her  aunt,  a  most  skillful  person,  who  had 
but  lately  married  a  thriving  farm  and  its 
prosperous  owner.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  Miss  Harriet  was  a  most  bewildering 
instructor,  and  that  her  pupil's  brain  was 
easily  confused  and  prone  to  blunders. 
The  coming  of  Helena  had  been  somewhat 
dreaded  by  reason  of  this  incompetent  ser 
vice,  but  the  guest  took  no  notice  of  frowns 
or  futile  gestures  at  the  first  tea-table,  ex 
cept  to  establish  friendly  relations  with 
Martha  on  her  own  account  by  a  reassuring 
smile.  They  were  about  the  same  age,  and 
next  morning,  before  cousin  Harriet  came 
down,  Helena  showed  by  a  word  and  a 
quick  touch  the  right  way  to  do  something 
that  had  gone  wrong  and  been  impossible  to 
understand  the  night  before.  A  moment 
later  the  anxious  mistress  came  in  without 
suspicion,  but  Martha's  eyes  were  as  affec 
tionate  as  a  dog's,  and  there  was  a  new  look 
of  hopefulness  on  her  face ;  this  dreaded 
guest  was  a  friend  after  all,  and  not  a  foe 
come  from  proud  Boston  to  confound  her 
ignorance  and  patient  efforts. 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  109 

The  two  young  creatures,  mistress  and 
maid,  were  hurrying  across  the  bleaching, 
green. 

"  I  can't  reach  the  ripest  cherries,"  ex 
plained  Helena  politely,  "  and  I  think  that 
Miss  Pyne  ought  to  send  some  to  the  minis 
ter.  He  has  just  made  us  a  call.  Why 
Martha,  you  have  n't  been  crying  again  !  " 

"  Yes  'm,"  said  Martha  sadly.  "  Miss 
Pyne  always  loves  to  send  something  to  the 
minister,"  she  acknowledged  with  interest, 
as  if  she  did  not  wish  to  be  asked  to  explain 
these  latest  tears. 

"  We  '11  arrange  some  of  the  best  cherries 
in  a  pretty  dish.  I  '11  show  you  how,  and 
you  shall  carry  them  over  to  the  parsonage 
after  tea,"  said  Helen'a  cheerfully,  and  Mar 
tha  accepted  the  embassy  with  pleasure. 
Life  was  beginning  to  hold  moments  of  some 
thing  like  delight  in  the  last  few  days. 

"  You  '11  spoil  your  pretty  dress,  Miss 
Helena,"  Martha  gave  shy  warning,  and 
Miss  Helena  stood  back  and  held  up  her 
skirts  with  unusual  care  while  the  country 
girl,  in  her  heavy  blue  checked  gingham, 
began  to  climb  the  cherry-tree  like  a  boy. 

Down  came  the  scarlet  fruit  like  bright 
rain  into  the  green  grass. 


110  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

"  Break  some  nice  twigs  with  the  cherries 
and  leaves  together ;  oh,  you  're  a  duck, 
Martha  !  "  and  Martha,  flushed  with  delight, 
and  looking  far  more  like  a  thin  and  solemn 
blue  heron,  came  rustling  down  to  earth 
again,  and  gathered  the  spoils  into  her  clean 
apron. 

That  night  at  tea,  during  her  hand 
maiden's  temporary  absence,  Miss  Harriet 
announced,  as  if  by  way  of  apology,  that  she 
thought  Martha  was  beginning  to  under 
stand  something  about  her  work.  "  Her 
aunt  was  a  treasure,  she  never  had  to  be  told 
anything  twice ;  but  Martha  has  been  as 
clumsy  as  a  calf,"  said  the  precise  mistress 
of  the  house.  "  I  have  been  afraid  some 
times  that  I  never  could  teach  her  anything. 
I  was  quite  ashamed  to  have  you  come  just 
now,  and  find  me  so  unprepared  to  entertain 
a  visitor." 

"  Oh,  Martha  will  learn  fast  enough  be 
cause  she  cares  so  much,"  said  the  visitor 
eagerly.  "  I  think  she  is  a  dear  good  girl. 
I  do  hope  that  she  will  never  go  away.  I 
think  she  does  things  better  every  day,  cou 
sin  Harriet,"  added  Helena  pleadingly,  with 
all  her  kind  young  heart.  The  china-closet 
door  was  open  a  little  way,  and  Martha  heard 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  Ill 

every  word.  From  that  moment,  she  not 
only  knew  what  love  was  like,  but  she  knew 
love's  dear  ambitions.  To  have  come  from 
a  stony  hill-farm  and  a  bare  small  wooden 
house,  was  like  a  cave-dweller's  coming  to 
make  a  permanent  home  in  an  art  museum, 
such  had  seemed  the  elaborateness  and  ele 
gance  of  Miss  Pyne's  fashion  of  life;  and 
Martha's  simple  brain  was  slow  enough  in 
its  processes  and  recognitions.  But  with 
this  sympathetic  ally  and  defender,  this  ex 
quisite  Miss  Helena  who  believed  in  her,  all 
difficulties  appeared  to  vanish. 

Later  that  evening,  no  longer  homesick 
or  hopeless,  Martha  returned  from  her  po 
lite  errand  to  the  minister,  and  stood  with  a 
sort  of  triumph  before  the  two  ladies,  who 
were  sitting  in  the  front  doorway,  as  if  they 
were  waiting  for  visitors,  Helena  still  in  her 
white  muslin  and  red  ribbons,  and  Miss 
Harriet  in  a  thin  black  silk.  Being  happily 
self -forgetful  in  the  greatness  of  the  moment, 
Martha's  manners  were  perfect,  and  she 
looked  for  once  almost  pretty  and  quite  as 
young  as  she  was. 

"  The  minister  came  to  the  door  himself, 
and  returned  his  thanks.  He  said  that  cher 
ries  were  always  his  favorite  fruit,  and  he 


112  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

was  much  obliged  to  both  Miss  Pyne  and 
Miss  Vernon.  He  kept  ine  waiting  a  few 
minutes,  while  he  got  this  book  ready  to 
send  to  you,  Miss  Helena." 

"  What  are  you  saying,  Martha  ?  I  have 
sent  him  nothing!"  exclaimed  Miss  Pyne, 
much  astonished.  "What  does  she  mean, 
Helena?" 

"  Only  a  few  cherries,"  explained  Helena. 
"  I  thought  Mr.  Crofton  would  like  them 
after  his  afternoon  of  parish  calls.  Martha 
and  I  arranged  them  before  tea,  and  I  sent 
them  with  our  compliments." 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  glad  you  did,"  said  Miss 
Harriet,  wondering,  but  much  relieved.  "  I 
was  afraid  "  — 

"  No,  it  was  none  of  my  mischief,"  an 
swered  Helena  daringly.  "  I  did  not  think 
that  Martha  would  be  ready  to  go  so  soon. 
I  should  have  shown  you  how  pretty  they 
looked  among  their  green  leaves.  We  put 
them  in  one  of  your  best  white  dishes  with 
the  openwork  edge.  Martha  shall  show  you 
to-morrow;  mamma  always  likes  to  have 
them  so."  Helena's  fingers  were  busy  with 
the  hard  knot  of  a  parcel. 

"  See  this,  cousin  Harriet !  "  she  an 
nounced  proudly,  as  Martha  disappeared 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  113 

round  the  corner  of  the  house,  beaming  with 
the  pleasures  of  adventure  and  success. 
"  Look  !  the  minister  has  sent  me  a  book  : 
Sermons  on  what  ?  Sermons  —  it  is  so  dark 
that  I  can't  quite  see." 

"  It  must  be  his  '  Sermons  on  the  Serious 
ness  of  Life ; '  they  are  the  only  ones  he  has 
printed,  I  believe,"  said  Miss  Harriet,  with 
much  pleasure.  "  They  are  considered  very 
fine  discourses.  He  pays  you  a  great  com 
pliment,  my  dear.  I  feared  that  he  noticed 
your  girlish  levity." 

"  I  behaved  beautifully  while  he  stayed," 
insisted  Helena.  "  Ministers  are  only  men," 
but  she  blushed  with  pleasure.  It  was  cer 
tainly  something  to  receive  a  book  from  its 
author,  and  such  a  tribute  made  her  of  more 
value  to  the  whole  reverent  household.  The 
minister  was  not  only  a  man,  but  a  bachelor, 
and  Helena  was  at  the  age  that  best  loves 
conquest ;  it  was  at  any  rate  comfortable  to 
be  reinstated  in  cousin  Harriet's  good  graces. 
, "  Do  ask  the  kind  gentleman  to  tea !  He 
needs  a  little  cheering  up,"  begged  the  siren 
in  India  muslin,  as  she  laid  the  shiny  black 
volume  of  sermons  on  the  stone  doorstep 
with  an  air  of  approval,  but  as  if  they  had 
quite  finished  their  mission. 


114  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall,  if  Martha  improves  as 
much  as  she  has  within  the  last  day  or  two," 
Miss  Harriet  promised  hopefully.  "  It  is 
something  I  always  dread  a  little  when  I 
am  all  alone,  but  I  think  Mr.  Crofton  likes 
to  come.  He  converses  so  elegantly." 


II. 

These  were  the  days  of  long  visits,  before 
affectionate  friends  thought  it  quite  worth 
while  to  take  a  hundred  miles'  journey 
merely  to  dine  or  to  pass  a  night  in  one 
another's  houses.  Helena  lingered  through 
the  pleasant  weeks  of  early  summer,  and 
departed  unwillingly  at  last  to  join  her 
family  at  the  White  Hills,  where  they  had 
gone,  like  other  households  of  high  social 
station,  to  pass  the  month  of  August  out  of 
town.  The  happy-hearted  young  guest  left 
many  lamenting  friends  behind  her,  and 
promised  each  that  she  would  come  back 
again  next  year.  She  left  the  minister  a 
rejected  lover,  as  well  as  the  preceptor  of 
the  academy,  but  with  their  pride  un- 
wounded,  and  it  may  have  been  with  wider 
outlooks  upon  the  world  and  a  less  narrow 
sympathy  both  for  their  own  work  in  life  and 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  115 

for  their  neighbors'  work  and  hindrances. 
Even  Miss  Harriet  Pyne  herself  had  lost 
some  of  the  unnecessary  provincialism  and 
prejudice  which  had  begun  to  harden  a 
naturally  good  and  open  mind  and  affec 
tionate  heart.  She  was  conscious  of  feeling 
younger  and  more  free,  and  not  so  lonely. 
Nobody  had  ever  been  so  gay,  so  fascinat 
ing,  or  so  kind  as  Helena,  so  full  of  social 
resource,  so  simple  and  undemanding  in  her 
friendliness.  The  light  of  her  young  life 
cast  no  shadow  on  either  young  or  old  com 
panions,  her  pretty  clothes  never  seemed  to 
make  other  girls  look  dull  or  out  of  fashion. 
When  she  went  away  up  the  street  in  Miss 
Harriet's  carriage  to  take  the  slow  train 
toward  Boston  and  the  gayeties  of  the  new 
Profile  House,  where  her  mother  waited  im 
patiently  with  a  group  of  Southern  friends, 
it  seemed  as  if  there  would  never  be  any 
more  picnics  or  parties  in  Ashford,  and  as  if 
society  had  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  grow 
old  and  get  ready  for  winter. 

Martha  came  into  Miss  Helena's  bed 
room  that  last  morning,  and  it  was  easy  to 
see  that  she  had  been  crying ;  she  looked 
just  as  she  did  in  that  first  sad  week  of 


116  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

homesickness  and  despair.  All  for  love's 
sake  she  had  been  learning  to  do  many 
things,  and  to  do  them  exactly  right ;  her 
eyes  had  grown  quick  to  see  the  smallest 
chance  for  personal  service.  Nobody  could 
be  more  humble  and  devoted ;  she  looked 
years  older  than  Helena,  and  wore  already  a 
touching  air  of  caretaking. 

"  You  spoil  me,  you  dear  Martha !  "  said 
Helena  from  the  bed.  "  I  don't  know  what 
they  will  say  at  home,  I  am  so  spoiled." 

Martha  went  on  opening  the  blinds  to  let 
in  the  brightness  of  the  summer  morning, 
but  she  did  not  speak. 

"You  are  getting  on  splendidly,  aren't 
you  ?  "  continued  the  little  mistress.  "  You 
have  tried  so  hard  that  you  make  me 
ashamed  of  myself.  At  first  you  crammed 
all  the  flowers  together,  and  now  you  make 
them  look  beautiful.  Last  night  cousin 
Harriet  was  so  pleased  when  the  table  was 
so  charming,  and  I  told  her  that  you  did 
everything  yourself,  every  bit.  Won't  you 
keep  the  flowers  fresh  and  pretty  in  the 
house  until  I  come  back  ?  It 's  so  much 
pleasanter  for  Miss  Pyne,  and  you  '11  feed 
my  little  sparrows,  won't  you?  They're 
growing  so  tame." 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  117 

"  Oh,  yes,  Miss  Helena  !  "  and  Martha 
looked  almost  angry  for  a  moment,  then  she 
burst  into  tears  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  apron.  "  I  could  n't  understand  a  single 
thing  when  I  first  caine.  I  never  had  been 
anywhere  to  see  anything,  and  Miss  Pyne 
frightened  me  when  she  talked.  It  was  you 
made  me  think  I  could  ever  learn.  I  wanted 
to  keep  the  place,  'count  of  mother  and  the 
little  boys ;  we  're  dreadful  hard  pushed. 
Hepsy  has  been  good  in  the  kitchen ;  she  said 
she  ought  to  have  patience  with  me,  for  she 
was  awkward  herself  when  she  first  came." 

Helena  laughed;  she  looked  so  pretty 
under  the  tasseled  white  curtains. 

"  I  dare  say  Hepsy  tells  the  truth,"  she 
said.  "  I  wish  you  had  told  me  about  your 
mother.  When  I  come  again,  some  day 
we  '11  drive  up  country,  as  you  call  it,  to  see 
her.  Martha !  I  wish  you  would  think  of 
me  sometimes  after  I  go  away.  Won't  you 
promise  ?  "  and  the  bright  young  face  sud 
denly  grew  grave.  "  I  have  hard  times  my 
self;  I  don't  always  learn  things  that  I 
ought  to  learn,  I  don't  always  put  things 
straight.  I  wish  you  would  n't  forget  me 
ever,  and  would  just  believe  in  me.  I  think 
it  does  help  more  than  anything." 


118  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

*'I  won't  forget,"  said  Martha  slowly. 
"I  shall  think  of  you  every  day."  She 
spoke  almost  with  indifference,  as  if  she  had 
been  asked  to  dust  a  room,  but  she  turned 
aside  quickly  and  pulled  the  little  mat  under 
the  hot  water  jug  quite  out  of  its  former 
straightness  ;  then  she  hastened  away  down 
the  long  white  entry,  weeping  as  she  went. 


III. 

To  lose  out  of  sight  the  friend  whom  one 
has  loved  and  lived  to  please  is  to  lose  joy 
out  of  life.  But  if  love  is  true,  there  comes 
presently  a  higher  joy  of  pleasing  the  ideal, 
that  is  to  say,  the  perfect  friend.  The  same 
old  happiness  is  lifted  to  a  higher  level. 
As  for  Martha,  the  girl  who  stayed  behind 
in  Ashford,  nobody's  life  could  seem  duller 
to  those  who  could  not  understand ;  she 
was  slow  of  step,  and  her  eyes  were  almost 
always  downcast  as  if  intent  upon  incessant 
toil ;  but  they  startled  you  when  she  looked 
up,  with  their  shining  light.  She  was  capa 
ble  of  the  happiness  of  holding  fast  to  a 
great  sentiment,  the  ineffable  satisfaction  of 
trying  to  please  one  whom  she  truly  loved. 
She  never  thought  of  trying  to  make  other 


MARTHA'S   LADY.  119 

people  pleased  with  herself ;  all  she  lived 
for  was  to  do  the  best  she  could  for  others, 
and  to  conform  to  an  ideal,  which  grew  at 
last  to  be  like  a  saint's  vision,  a  heavenly 
figure  painted  upon  the  sky. 

On  Sunday  afternoons  in  summer,  Martha 
sat  by  the  window  of  her  chamber,  a  low- 
storied  little  room,  which  looked  into  the 
side  yard  and  the  great  branches  of  an  elm- 
tree.  She  never  sat  in  the  old  wooden 
rocking-chair  except  on  Sundays  like  this ; 
it  belonged  to  the  day  of  rest  and  to  happy 
meditation.  She  wore  her  plain  black  dress 
and  a  clean  white  apron,  and  held  in  her  lap 
a  little  wooden  box,  with  a  brass  ring  on 
top  for  a  handle.  She  was  past  sixty  years 
of  age  and  looked  even  older,  but  there  was 
the  same  look  on  her  face  that  it  had  some 
times  worn  in  girlhood.  She  was  the  same 
Martha;  her  hands  were  old-looking  and 
work-worn,  but  her  face  still  shone.  It 
seemed  like  yesterday  that  Helena  Vernon 
had  gone  away,  and  it  was  more  than  forty 
years. 

War  and  peace  had  brought  their  changes 
and  great  anxieties,  the  face  of  the  earth 
was  furrowed  by  floods  and  fire,  the  faces  of 


120  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

mistress  and  maid  were  furrowed  by  smiles 
and  tears,  and  in  the  sky  the  stars  shone  on 
as  if  nothing  had  happened.  The  village  of 
Ashford  added  a  few  pages  to  its  unexciting 
history,  the  minister  preached,  the  people 
listened  ;  now  and  then  a  funeral  crept  along 
the  street,  and  now  and  then  the  bright  face 
of  a  little  child  rose  above  the  horizon  of  a 
family  pew.  Miss  Harriet  Pyne  lived  on  in 
the  large  white  house,  which  gained  more 
and  more  distinction  because  it  suffered  no 
changes,  save  successive  repaintings  and  a 
new  railing  about  its  stately  roof.  Miss 
Harriet  herself  had  moved  far  beyond  the 
uncertainties  of  an  anxious  youth.  She  had 
long  ago  made  all  her  decisions,  and  settled 
all  necessary  questions ;  her  scheme  of  life 
was  as  faultless  as  the  miniature  landscape 
of  a  Japanese  garden,  and  as  easily  kept 
in  order.  The  only  important  change  she 
would  ever  be  capable  of  making  was  the 
final  change  to  another  and  a  better  world ; 
and  for  that  nature  itself  would  gently  pro 
vide,  and  her  own  innocent  life. 

Hardly  any  great  social  event  had  ruffled 
the  easy  current  of  life  since  Helena  Ver- 
non's  marriage.  To  this  Miss  Pyne  had 
gone,  stately  in  appearance  and  carrying 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  121 

gifts  of  some  old  family  silver  which  bore 
the  Vernon  crest,  but  not  without  some  pro 
test  in  her  heart  against  the  uncertainties 
of  married  life.  Helena  was  so  equal  to  a 
happy  independence  and  even  to  the  assist 
ance  of  other  lives  grown  strangely  depend 
ent  upon  her  quick  sympathies  and  instinc 
tive  decisions,  that  it  was  hard  to  let  her 
sink  her  personality  in  the  affairs  of  another. 
Yet  a  brilliant  English  match  was  not  with 
out  its  attractions  to  an  old-fashioned  gentle 
woman  like  Miss  Pyne,  and  Helena  herself 
was  amazingly  happy ;  one  day  there  had 
come  a  letter  to  Ashford,  in  which  her 
very  heart  seemed  to  beat  with  love  and 
self-forgetfulness,  to  tell  cousin  Harriet  of 
such  new  happiness  and  high  hope.  "  Tell 
Martha  all  that  I  say  about  my  dear  Jack," 
wrote  the  eager  girl ;  "  please  show  my 
letter  to  Martha,  and  tell  her  that  I  shall 
come  home  next  summer  and  bring  the 
handsomest  and  best  man  in  the  world  to 
Ashford.  I  have  told  him  all  about  the 
dear  house  and  the  dear  garden ;  there 
never  was  such  a  lad  to  reach  for  cherries 
with  his  six-foot-two."  Miss  Pyne,  wonder 
ing  a  little,  gave  the  letter  to  Martha,  who 
took  it  deliberately  and  as  if  she  wondered 


122  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

too,  and  went  away  to  read  it  slowly  by 
herself.  Martha  cried  over  it,  and  felt  a 
strange  sense  of  loss  and  pain  ;  it  hurt  her 
heart  a  little  to  read  about  the  cherry-pick 
ing.  Her  idol  seemed  to  be  less  her  own 
since  she  had  become  the  idol  of  a  stranger. 
She  never  had  taken  such  a  letter  in  her 
hands  before,  but  love  at  last  prevailed, 
since  Miss  Helena  was  happy,  and  she 
kissed  the  last  page  where  her  name  was 
written,  feeling  overbold,  and  laid  the  envel 
ope  on  Miss  Pyne's  secretary  without  a 
word. 

The  most  generous  love  cannot  but  long 
for  reassurance,  and  Martha  had  the  joy  of 
being  remembered.  She  was  not  forgotten 
when  the  day  of  the  wedding  drew  near, 
but  she  never  knew  that  Miss  Helena  had 
asked  if  cousin  Harriet  would  not  bring 
Martha  to  town ;  she  should  like  to  have 
Martha  there  to  see  her  married.  "  She 
would  help  about  the  flowers,"  wrote  the 
happy  girl ;  "  I  know  she  will  like  to  come, 
and  I  '11  ask  mamma  to  plan  to  have  some 
one  take  her  all  about  Boston  and  make  her 
have  a  pleasant  time  after  the  hurry  of  the 
great  day  is  over." 

Cousin  Harriet  thought  it  was  very  kind 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  123 

and  exactly  like  Helena,  but  Martha  would 
be  out  of  her  element ;  it  was  most  im 
prudent  and  girlish  to  have  thought  of  such 
a  thing.  Helena's  mother  would  be  far 
from  wishing  for  any  unnecessary  guest  just 
then,  in  the  busiest  part  of  her  household, 
and  it  was  best  not  to  speak  of  the  invita 
tion.  Some  day  Martha  should  go  to  Bos 
ton  if  she  did  well,  but  not  now.  Helena 
did  not  forget  to  ask  if  Martha  had  come, 
and  was  astonished  by  the  indifference  of 
the  answer.  It  was  the  first  thing  which 
reminded  her  that  she  was  not  a  fairy 
princess  having  everything  her  own  way  in 
that  last  day  before  the  wedding.  She 
knew  that  Martha  would  have  loved  to  be 
near,  for  she  could  not  help  understanding 
in  that  moment  of  her  own  happiness  the 
love  that  was  hidden  in  another  heart. 
Next  day  this  happy  young  princess,  the 
bride,  cut  a  piece  of  a  great  cake  and  put 
it  into  a  pretty  box  that  had  held  one  of  her 
wedding  presents.  With  eager  voices  call 
ing  her,  and  all  her  friends  about  her,  and 
her  mother's  face  growing  more  and  more 
wistful  at  the  thought  of  parting,  she  still 
lingered  and  ran  to  take  one  or  two  trifles 
from  her  dressing-table,  a  little  mirror  and 


124  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

some  tiny  scissors  that  Martha  would  re 
member,  and  one  of  the  pretty  handker 
chiefs  marked  with  her  maiden  name. 
These  she  put  in  the  box  too ;  it  was  half 
a  girlish  freak  and  fancy,  but  she  could 
not  help  trying  to  share  her  happiness,  and 
Martha's  life  was  so  plain  and  dull.  She 
whispered  a  message,  and  put  the  little 
package  into  cousin  Harriet's  hand  for 
Martha  as  she  said  good-by.  She  was  very 
fond  of  cousin  Harriet.  She  smiled  with 
a  gleam  of  her  old  fun ;  Martha's  puzzled 
look  and  tall  awkward  figure  seemed  to  stand 
suddenly  before  her  eyes,  as  she  promised 
to  come  again  to  Ashford.  Impatient  voices 
called  to  Helena,  her  lover  was  at  the  door, 
and  she  hurried  away,  leaving  her  old  home 
and  her  girlhood  gladly.  If  she  had  only 
known  it,  as  she  kissed  cousin  Harriet  good- 
by,  they  were  never  going  to  see  each  other 
again  until  they  were  old  women.  The  first 
step  that  she  took  out  of  her  father's  house 
that  day,  married,  and  full  of  hope  and  joy, 
was  a  step  that  led  her  away  from  the  green 
elms  of  Boston  Common  and  away  from  her 
own  country  and  those  she  loved  best,  to 
a  brilliant,  much-varied  foreign  life,  and  to 
nearly  all  the  sorrows  and  nearly  all  the 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  125 

joys  that  the  heart  of  one  woman  could  hold 
or  know. 

On  Sunday  afternoons  Martha  used  to  sit 
by  the  window  in  Ashford  and  hold  the 
wooden  box  which  a  favorite  young  brother, 
who  afterward  died  at  sea,  had  made  for  her, 
and  she  used  to  take  out  of  it  the  pretty  little 
box  with  a  gilded  cover  that  had  held  the 
piece  of  wedding-cake,  and  the  small  scissors, 
and  the  blurred  bit  of  a  mirror  in  its  silver 
case;  as  for  the  handkerchief  with  the 
narrow  lace  edge,  once  in  two  or  three  years 
she  sprinkled  it  as  if  it  were  a  flower,  and 
spread  it  out  in  the  sun  on  the  old  bleach- 
ing-green,  and  sat  near  by  in  the  shrubbery 
to  watch  lest  some  bold  robin  or  cherry-bird 
should  seize  it  and  fly  away. 

IV. 

Miss  Harriet  Pyne  was  often  congrat 
ulated  upon  the  good  fortune  of  having  such 
a  helper  and  friend  as  Martha.  As  time 
went  on  this  tall,  gaunt  woman,  always  thin, 
always  slow,  gained  a  dignity  of  behavior 
and  simple  affectionateness  of  look  which 
suited  the  charm  and  dignity  of  the  ancient 
house.  She  was  unconsciously  beautiful 


126  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

like  a  saint,  like  the  picturesqueness  of  a 
lonely  tree  which  lives  to  shelter  unnum 
bered  lives  and  to  stand  quietly  in  its  place. 
There  was  such  rustic  homeliness  and  con 
stancy  belonging  to  her,  such  beautiful 
powers  of  apprehension,  such  reticence,  such 
gentleness  for  those  who  were  troubled  or 
sick ;  all  these  gifts  and  graces  Martha  hid 
in  her  heart.  .  She  never  joined  the  church 
because  she  thought  she  was  not  good 
enough,  but  life  was  such  a  passion  and 
happiness  of  service  that  it  was  impossible 
not  to  be  devout,  and  she  was  always  in  her 
humble  place  on  Sundays,  in  the  back  pew 
next  the  door.  She  had  been  educated  by  a 
remembrance  ;  Helena 's  young  eyes  forever 
looked  at  her  reassuringly  from  a  gay  girlish 
face.  Helena's  sweet  patience  in  teaching 
her  own  awkwardness  could  never  be  for 
gotten. 

"  I  owe  everything  to  Miss  Helena,"  said 
Martha,  half  aloud,  as  she  sat  alone  by  the 
window ;  she  had  said  it  to  herself  a  thou 
sand  times.  When  she  looked  in  the  little 
keepsake  mirror  she  always  hoped  to  see 
some  faint  reflection  of  Helena  Vernon,  but 
there  was  only  her  own  brown  old  New  Eng 
land  face  to  look  back  at  her  wonderingly. 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  127 

Miss  Pyne  went  less  and  less  often  to  pay 
visits  to  her  friends  in  Boston ;  there  were 
very  few  friends  left  to  come  to  Ashf ord  and 
make  long  visits  in  the  summer,  and  life 
grew  more  and  more  monotonous.  Now  and 
then  there  came  news  from  across  the  sea 
and  messages  of  remembrance,  letters  that 
were  closely  written  on  thin  sheets  of  paper, 
and  that  spoke  of  lords  and  ladies,  of  great 
journeys,  of  the  death  of  little  children  and 
the  proud  successes  of  boys  at  school,  of  the 
wedding  of  Helena  Dysart's  only  daughter ; 
but  even  that  had  happened  years  ago. 
These  things  seemed  far  away  and  vague,  as 
if  they  belonged  to  a  story  and  not  to  life 
itself ;  the  true  links  with  the  past  were 
quite  different.  There  was  the  unvarying 
flock  of  ground-sparrows  that  Helena  had 
begun  to  feed  ;  every  morning  Martha  scat 
tered  crumbs  for  them  from  the  side  door 
steps  while  Miss  Pyne  watched  from  the 
dining-room  window,  and  they  were  counted 
and  cherished  year  by  year. 

Miss  Pyne  herself  had  many  fixed  habits, 
but  little  ideality  or  imagination,  and  so  at 
last  it  was  Martha  who  took  thought  for  her 
mistress,  and  gave  freedom  to  her  own  good 
taste.  After  a  while,  without  any  one's 


128  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

observing  the  change,  the  every-day  ways  of 
doing  things  in  the  house  came  to  be  the 
stately  ways  that  had  once  belonged  only  to 
the  entertainment  of  guests.  Happily  both 
mistress  and  maid  seized  all  possible  chances 
for  hospitality,  yet  Miss  Harriet  nearly  al 
ways  sat  alone  at  her  exquisitely  served  table 
with  its  fresh  flowers,  and  the  beautiful  old 
china  which  Martha  handled  so  lovingly  that 
there  was  no  good  excuse  for  keeping  it  hid 
den  on  closet  shelves.  Every  year  when  the 
old  cherry-trees  were  in  fruit,  Martha  car 
ried  the  round  white  old  English  dish  with 
a  fretwork  edge,  full  of  pointed  green  leaves 
and  scarlet  cherries,  to  the  minister,  and  his 
wife  never  quite  understood  why  every  year 
he  blushed  and  looked  so  conscious  of  the 
pleasure,  and  thanked  Martha  as  if  he  had 
received  a  very  particular  attention.  There 
was  no  pretty  suggestion  toward  the  pursuit 
of  the  fine  art  of  housekeeping  in  Martha's 
limited  acquaintance  with  newspapers  that 
she  did  not  adopt ;  there  was  no  refined  old 
custom  of  the  Pyne  housekeeping  that  she 
consented  to  let  go.  And  every  day,  as  she 
had  promised,  she  thought  of  Miss  Helena, 
—  oh,  many  times  in  every  day :  whether 
this  thing  would  please  her,  or  that  be  likely 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  129 

to  fall  in  with  her  fancy  or  ideas  of  fitness. 
As  far  as  was  possible  the  rare  news  that 
reached  Ashford  through  an  occasional  let 
ter  or  the  talk  of  guests  was  made  part  of 
Martha's  own  life,  the  history  of  her  own 
heart.  A  worn  old  geography  often  stood 
open  at  the  map  of  Europe  on  the  light- 
stand  in  her  room,  and  a  little  old-fashioned 
gilt  button,  set  with  a  bit  of  glass  like  a 
ruby,  that  had  broken  and  fallen  from  the 
trimming  of  one  of  Helena's  dresses,  was 
used  to  mark  the  city  of  her  dwelling-place. 
In  the  changes  of  a  diplomatic  life  Martha 
followed  her  lady  all  about  the  map.  Some 
times  the  button  was  at  Paris,  and  sometimes 
at  Madrid  ;  once,  to  her  great  anxiety,  it 
remained  long  at  St.  Petersburg.  For  such 
a  slow  scholar  Martha  was  not  unlearned  at 
last,  since  everything  about  life  in  these  for 
eign  towns  was  of  interest  to  her  faithful 
heart.  She  satisfied  her  own  mind  as  she 
threw  crumbs  to  the  tame  sparrows  ;  it  was 
all  part  of  the  same  thing  and  for  the  same 
affectionate  reasons. 


130  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

V. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  in  early  summer 
Miss  Harriet  Pyne  came  hurrying  along  the 
entry  that  led  to  Martha's  room  and  called 
two  or  three  times  before  its  inhabitant  could 
reach  the  door.  Miss  Harriet  looked  unusu 
ally  cheerful  and  excited,  and  she  held  some 
thing  in  her  hand.  "  Where  are  you,  Mar 
tha  ?  "  she  called  again.  "  Come  quick,  I 
have  something  to  tell  you  !  " 

"  Here  I  am,  Miss  Pyne,"  said  Martha, 
who  had  only  stopped  to  put  her  precious  box 
in  the  drawer,  and  to  shut  the  geography. 

"  Who  do  you  think  is  coming  this  very 
night  at  half -past  six?  We  must  have  every 
thing  as  nice  as  we  can ;  I  must  see  Han 
nah  at  once.  Do  you  remember  my  cousin 
Helena  who  has  lived  abroad  so  long  ?  Miss 
Helena  Vernon,  —  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Dy- 
sart,  she  is  now." 

"Yes,  I  remember  her,"  answered  Mar 
tha,  turning  a  little  pale. 

"  I  knew  that  she  was  in  this  country,  and 
I  had  written  to  ask  her  to  come  for  a  long 
visit,"  continued  Miss  Harriet,  who  did  not 
often  explain  things,  even  to  Martha,  though 
she  was  always  conscientious  about  the  kind 


MARTHA'S   LADY.  131 

messages  that  were  sent  back  by  grateful 
guests.  "  She  telegraphs  that  she  means  to 
anticipate  her  visit  by  a  few  days  and  come 
to  me  at  once.  The  heat  is  beginning  in 
town,  I  suppose.  I  daresay,  having  been  a 
foreigner  so  long,  she  does  not  mind  travel 
ing  on  Sunday.  Do  you  think  Hannah  will 
be  prepared?  We  must  have  tea  a  little 
later." 

"Yes,  Miss  Harriet,"  said  Martha.  She 
wondered  that  she  could  speak  as  usual, 
there  was  such  a  ringing  in  her  ears.  "  I  shall 
have  time  to  pick  some  fresh  strawberries ; 
Miss  Helena  is  so  fond  of  our  strawberries." 

"  Why,  I  had  forgotten,"  said  Miss  Pyne, 
a  little  puzzled  by  something  quite  unusual 
in  Martha's  face.  "  We  must  expect  to  find 
Mrs.  Dysart  a  good  deal  changed,  Martha ;  it 
is  a  great  many  years  since  she  was  here  ;  I 
have  not  seen  her  since  her  wedding,  and  she 
has  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  poor  girl. 
You  had  better  open  the  parlor  chamber, 
and  make  it  ready  before  you  go  down." 

"  It  is  all  ready,"  said  Martha.  "  I  can 
carry  some  of  those  little  sweet-brier  roses 
upstairs  before  she  comes." 

"Yes,  you  are  always  thoughtful,"  said 
Miss  Pyne,  with  unwonted  feeling. 


132  MARTHA'S  LADY. 

Martha  did  not  answer.  She  glanced  at  the 
telegram  wistfully.  She  had  never  really 
suspected  before  that  Miss  Pyne  knew  no 
thing  of  the  love  that  had  been  in  her  heart 
all  these  years  ;  it  was  half  a  pain  and  half 
a  golden  joy  to  keep  such  a  secret ;  she 
could  hardly  bear  this  moment  of  surprise. 

Presently  the  news  gave  wings  to  her 
willing  feet.  When  Hannah,  the  cook,  who 
never  had  known  Miss  Helena,  went  to  the 
parlor  an  hour  later  on  some  errand  to  her 
old  mistress,  she  discovered  that  this  stranger 
guest  must  be  a  very  important  person.  She 
had  never  seen  the  tea-table  look  exactly  as 
it  did  that  night,  and  in  the  parlor  itself 
there  were  fresh  blossoming  boughs  in  the 
old  East  India  jars,  and  lilies  in  the  paneled 
hall,  and  flowers  everywhere,  as  if  there 
were  some  high  festivity. 

Miss  Pyne  sat  by  the  window  watching, 
in  her  best  dress,  looking  stately  and  calm  ; 
she  seldom  went  out  now,  and  it  was  almost 
time  for  the  carriage.  Martha  was  just 
coming  in  from  the  garden  with  the  straw 
berries,  and  with  more  flowers  in  her  apron. 
It  was  a  bright  cool  evening  in  June,  the 
golden  robins  sang  in  the  elms,  and  the  sun 
was  going  down  behind  the  apple-trees  at 


MARTHA'S  LADY.  133 

the  foot  of  the  garden.  The  beautiful  old 
house  stood  wide  open  to  the  long-expected 
guest. 

"  I  think  that  I  shall  go  down  to  the  gate," 
said  Miss  Pyne,  looking  at  Martha  for  ap 
proval,  and  Martha  nodded  and  they  went 
together  slowly  down  the  broad  front  walk. 

There  was  a  sound  of  horses  and  wheels 
on  the  roadside  turf :  Martha  could  not  see 
at  first ;  she  stood  back  inside  the  gate  behind 
the  white  lilac-bushes  as  the  carriage  came. 
Miss  Pyne  was  there  ;  she  was  holding  out 
both  arms  and  taking  a  tired,  bent  little 
figure  in  black  to  her  heart.  "  Oh,  my 
Miss  Helena  is  an  old  woman  like  me ! " 
and  Martha  gave  a  pitiful  sob ;  she  had 
never  dreamed  it  would  be  like  this ;  this 
was  the  one  thing  she  could  not  bear. 

."Where  are  you,  Martha?"  called  Miss 
Pyne.  "  Martha  will  bring  these  in ;  you 
have  not  forgotten  my  good  Martha,  Hel 
ena  ?  "  Then  Mrs.  Dysart  looked  up  and 
smiled  just  as  she  used  to  smile  in  the  old 
days.  The  young  eyes  were  there  still  in 
the  changed  face,  and  Miss  Helena  had  come. 

That  night  Martha  waited  in  her  lady's 
room  just  as  she  used,  humble  and  silent, 


134  MARTHA'S   LADY. 

and  went  through  with  the  old  unforgotten 
loving  services.  The  long  years  seemed  like 
days.  At  last  she  lingered  a  moment  try 
ing  to  think  of  something  else  that  might 
be  done,  then  she  was  going  silently  away, 
but  Helena  called  her  back.  She  suddenly 
knew  the  whole  story  and  could  hardly  speak. 
"  Oh,  my  dear  Martha !  "  she  cried,  "  won't 
you  kiss  me  good-night  ?  Oh,  Martha,  have 
you  remembered  like  this,  all  these  long 
years  I  " 


THE  COON  DOG. 

I. 

IN  the  early  dusk  of  a  warm  September 
evening  the  bats  were  flitting  to  and  fro, 
as  if  it  were  still  summer,  under  the  great 
elm  that  overshadowed  Isaac  Brown's  house, 
on  the  Dipford  road.  Isaac  Brown  himself, 
and  his  old  friend  and  neighbor  John  York, 
were  leaning  against  the  fence. 

"  Frost  keeps  off  late,  don't  it  ?  "  said  John 
York.  "  I  laughed  when  I  first  heard  about 
the  circus  comin' ;  I  thought  't  was  so  un 
usual  late  in  the  season.  Turned  out  well, 
however.  Everybody  I  noticed  was  return- 
in'  with  a  palm-leaf  fan.  Guess  they  found 
'em  useful  under  the  tent ;  't  was  a  master 
hot  day.  I  saw  old  lady  Price  with  her 
hands  full  o'  those  free  advertisin'  fans, 
as  if  she  was  layin'  in  a  stock  against  next 
summer.  Well,  I  expect  she  '11  live  to 
enjoy  'em." 

"  I  was  right  here  where  I  'm  standin' 
now,  and  I  see  her  as  she  was  goin'  by  this 


136  THE   COON  DOG. 

mornin',"  said  Isaac  Brown,  laughing,  and 
settling  himself  comfortably  against  the 
fence  as  if  they  had  chanced  upon  a  welcome 
subject  of  conversation.  "  I  hailed  her, 
same  's  I  gener'lly  do.  '  Where  are  you 
bound  to-day,  ma'am  ?  '  says  I. 

" '  I  'm  goin'  over  as  fur  as  Dipf ord  Cen 
tre,'  says  she.  '  I  'm  goin'  to  see  my  poor 
dear  'Liza  Jane.  I  want  to  'suage  her 
grief ;  her  husband,  Mr.  'Bijah  Topliff ,  has 
passed  away.' 

" '  So  much  the  better,'  says  I. 

" '  No ;  I  never  Farnt  about  it  till  yister- 
day,'  says  she ;  an'  she  looked  up  at  me  real 
kind  of  pleasant,  and  begun  to  laugh. 

"'I  hear  he's  left  property,'  says  she, 
tryin'  to  pull  her  face  down  solemn.  I  give 
her  the  fifty  cents  she  wanted  to  borrow  to 
make  up  her  car-fare  and  other  expenses, 
an'  she  stepped  off  like  a  girl  down  tow'ds 
the  depot. 

"  This  afternoon,  as  you  know,  I  'd  pro 
mised  the  boys  that  I  'd  take  'em  over  to  see 
the  menagerie,  and  nothin'  would  n't  do  none 
of  us  any  good  but  we  must  see  the  circus 
too ;  an'  when  we  'd  just  got  posted  on  one 
o'  the  best  high  seats,  mother  she  nudged 
me,  and  I  looked  right  down  front  two,  three 


THE   COON  DOG.  137 

rows,  an'  if  there  wa'n't  Mis'  Price,  specta 
cles  an'  all,  with  her  head  right  up  in  the  air, 
havin'  the  best  time  you  ever  see.  I  laughed 
right  out.  She  had  n't  taken  no  time  to  see 
'Liza  Jane ;  she  wa'n't  'suagin'  no  grief  for 
nobody  till  she  'd  seen  the  circus.  '  There,' 
says  I,  '  I  do  like  to  have  anybody  keep 
their  young  feelin's  !  ' : 

"  Mis'  Price  come  over  to  see  our  folks 
before  breakfast,"  said  John  York.  "  "Wife 
said  she  was  inquirin'  about  the  circus,  but 
she  wanted  to  know  first  if  they  could  n't 
oblige  her  with  a  few  trinkets  o'  mournin', 
seein'  as  how  she  'd  got  to  pay  a  mournin' 
visit.  Wife  thought  't  was  a  bosom-pin, 
or  somethin'  like  that,  but  turned  out  she 
wanted  the  skirt  of  a  dress ;  'most  anything 
would  do,  she  said." 

"  I  thought  she  looked  extra  well  startin' 
off,"  said  Isaac,  with  an  indulgent  smile. 
"  The  Lord  provides  very  handsome  for  such, 
I  do  declare  !  She  ain't  had  no  visible  means 
o'  support  these  ten  or  fifteen  years  back, 
but  she  don't  freeze  up  in  winter  no  more 
than  we  do." 

"  Nor  dry  up  in  summer,"  interrupted  his 
friend ;  "  I  never  did  see  such  an  able  hand 
to  talk." 


138  THE    COON  DOG. 

"  She  's  good  company,  and  she  's  obli 
ging  an'  useful  when  the  women  folks  have 
their  extra  work  progressin',"  continued 
Isaac  Brown  kindly.  "  'T  ain't  much  for 
a  well-off  neighborhood  like  this  to  support 
that  old  chirpin'  cricket.  My  mother  used 
to  say  she  kind  of  helped  the  work  along  by 
'livenin'  of  it.  Here  she  comes  now  ;  must 
have  taken  the  last  train,  after  she  had  sup 
per  with  'Lizy  Jane.  You  stay  still ;  we  're 
goin'  to  hear  all  about  it." 

The  small,  thin  figure  of  Mrs.  Price  had  to 
be  hailed  twice  before  she  could  be  stopped. 

"  I  wish  you  a  good  evenin',  neighbors," 
she  said.  "  I  have  been  to  the  house  of 
mournin'." 

"  Find  'Liza  Jane  in,  after  the  circus  ?  " 
asked  Isaac  Brown,  with  equal  seriousness. 
"  Excellent  show,  was  n't  it,  for  so  late  in 
the  season  ?  " 

"  Oh,  beautiful ;  it  was  beautiful,  I  de 
clare,"  answered  the  pleased  spectator  read 
ily.  "  Why,  I  did  n't  see  you,  nor  Mis' 
Brown.  Yes ;  I  felt  it  best  to  refresh  my 
mind  an'  wear  a  cheerful  countenance. 
When  I  see  'Liza  Jane  I  was  able  to  divert 
her  mind  consid'able.  She  was  glad  I  went. 
I  told  her  I  'd  made  an  effort,  knowin'  't  was 


THE   COON  DOG.  139 

so  she  had  to  lose  the  a'ternoon.  'Bijah  left 
property,  if  he  did  die  away  from  home  on 
a  foreign  shore." 

"  You  don't  mean  that  'Bijah  Topliff  's  left 
anything  !  "  exclaimed  John  York  with  in 
terest,  while  Isaac  Brown  put  both  hands 
deep  into  his  pockets,  and  leaned  back  in  a 
still  more  satisfactory  position  against  the 
gatepost. 

"He  enjoyed  poor  health," answered  Mrs. 
Price,  after  a  moment  of  deliberation,  as  if 
she  must  take  time  to  think.  "  'Bijah  never 
was  one  that  scattereth,  nor  yet  increaseth. 
'Liza  Jane 's  got  some  memories  o'  the  past 
that 's  a  good  deal  better  than  others ;  but 
he  died  somewheres  out  in  Connecticut,  or 
so  she  heard,  and  he  's  left  a  very  val'able 
coon  dog,  —  one  he  set  a  great  deal  by. 
'Liza  Jane  said,  last  time  he  was  to  home,  he 
priced  that  dog  at  fifty  dollars.  '  There,  now, 
'Liza  Jane,'  says  I,  right  to  her,  when  she 
told  me,  '  if  I  could  git  fifty  dollars  for  that 
dog,  I  certain'  would.  Perhaps  some  o'  the 
circus  folks  would  like  to  buy  him  ;  they  've 
taken  in  a  stream  o'  money  this  day.'  But 
'Liza  Jane  ain't  never  inclined  to  listen  to 
advice.  'T  is  a  dreadful  poor-spirited-lookin' 
creatur'.  I  don't  want  no  right  o'  dower  in 
him,  myself." 


140  THE   COON  DOG. 

*'  A  good  coon  dog  's  worth  something  cer 
tain,"  said  John  York  handsomely. 

"  If  he  is  a  good  coon  dog,"  added  Isaac 
Brown.  "  I  would  n't  have  parted  with  old 
Hover,  here,  for  a  good  deal  of  money  when 
he  was  right  in  his  best  days ;  but  a  dog 
like  him  's  like  one  of  the  family.  Stop  an' 
have  some  supper,  won't  ye,  Mis'  Price  ?  " 
—  as  the  thin  old  creature  was  flitting  off 
again.  At  that  same  moment  this  kind  in 
vitation  was  repeated  from  the  door  of  the 
house  ;  and  Mrs.  Price  turned  in,  unprotest- 
ing  and  always  sociably  inclined,  at  the  open 
gate. 

II. 

It  was  a  month  later,  and  a  whole  au 
tumn's  length  colder,  when  the  two  men  were 
coming  home  from  a  long  tramp  through  the 
woods.  They  had  been  making  a  solemn 
inspection  of  a  wood-lot  that  they  owned 
together,  and  had  now  visited  their  land 
marks  and  outer  boundaries,  and  settled  the 
great  question  of  cutting  or  not  cutting  some 
large  pines.  When  it  was  well  decided  that 
a  few  years'  growth  would  be  no  disadvan 
tage  to  the  timber,  they  had  eaten  an  excel 
lent  cold  luncheon  and  rested  from  their 
labors. 


THE   COON  DOG.  141 

"  I  don't  feel  a  day  older  'n  ever  I  did  when 
I  get  out  in  the  woods  this  way,"  announced 
John  York,  who  was  a  prim,  dusty-looking 
little  man,  a  prudent  person,  who  had  been 
selectman  of  the  town  at  least  a  dozen  times. 

"  No  more  do  I,"  agreed  his  companion, 
who  was  large  and  jovial  and  open-handed, 
more  like  a  lucky  sea-captain  than  a  farmer. 
After  pounding  a  slender  walnut-tree  with  a 
heavy  stone,  he  had  succeeded  in  getting 
down  a  pocketful  of  late-hanging  nuts  which 
had  escaped  the  squirrels,  and  was  now  snap 
ping  them  back,  one  by  one,  to  a  venture 
some  chipmunk  among  some  little  frost-bitten 
beeches.  Isaac  Brown  had  a  wonderfully 
pleasant  way  of  getting  on  with  all  sorts  of 
animals,  even  men.  After  a  while  they  rose 
and  went  their  way,  these  two  companions, 
stopping  here  and  there  to  look  at  a  possible 
woodchuck's  hole,  or  to  strike  a  few  hopeful 
blows  at  a  hollow  tree  with  the  light  axe  which 
Isaac  had  carried  to  blaze  new  marks  on 
some  of  the  line-trees  on  the  farther  edge  of 
their  possessions.  Sometimes  they  stopped 
to  admire  the  size  of  an  old  hemlock,  or  to 
talk  about  thinning  out  the  young  pines.  At 
last  they  were  not  very  far  from  the  entrance 
to  the  great  tract  of  woodland.  The  yellow 


142  THE   COON  DOG. 

sunshine  came  slanting  in  much  brighter 
against  the  tall  trunks,  spotting  them  with 
golden  light  high  among  the  still  branches. 

Presently  they  came  to  a  great  ledge,  frost- 
split  and  cracked  into  mysterious  crevices. 

"  Here 's  where  we  used  to  get  all  the 
coons,"  said  John  York.  "  I  have  n't  seen  a 
coon  this  great  while,  spite  o'  your  courage 
knocking  on  the  trees  up  back  here.  You 
know  that  night  we  got  the  four  fat  ones  ? 
We  started  'em  somewheres  near  here,  so  the 
dog  could  get  after  'em  when  they  come  out 
at  night  to  go  foragin'." 

"  Hold  on,  John  ; "  and  Mr.  Isaac  Brown 
got  up  from  the  log  where  he  had  just  sat 
down  to  rest,  and  went  to  the  ledge,  and 
looked  carefully  all  about.  When  he  came 
back  he  was  much  excited,  and  beckoned  his 
friend  away,  speaking  in  a  stage  whisper. 

"  I  guess  you  '11  see  a  coon  before  you  're 
much  older,"  he  proclaimed.  "  I  've  thought 
it  looked  lately  as  if  there  'd  been  one  about 
my  place,  and  there 's  plenty  o'  signs  here, 
right  in  their  old  haunts.  Couple  o'  hens' 
heads  an'  a  lot  o'  feathers  "  — 

"  Might  be  a  fox,"  interrupted  John  York. 

"Might  be  a  coon,"  answered  Mr.  Isaac 
Brown.  "  I  'm  goin'  to  have  him,  too.  I  've 


THE   COON  DOG.  143 

been  lookin'  at  every  old  hollow  tree  I 
passed,  but  I  never  thought  o'  this  place. 
We  '11  come  right  off  to-morrow  night,  I 
guess,  John,  an'  see  if  we  can't  get  him. 
'T  is  an  extra  handy  place  for  'em  to  den  ; 
in  old  times  the  folks  always  called  it  a  good 
place ;  they  've  been  so  sca'ce  o'  these  late 
years  that  I  've  thought  little  about  'em. 
Nothin'  I  ever  liked  so  well  as  a  coon-hunt. 
Gorry !  he  must  be  a  big  old  fellow,  by  his 
tracks  !  See  here,  in  this  smooth  dirt ;  just 
like  a  baby's  footmark." 

"  Trouble  is,  we  lack  a  good  dog,"  said 
John  York  anxiously,  after  he  had  made 
an  eager  inspection.  "  I  don't  know  where 
in  the  world  to  get  one,  either.  There  ain't  no 
such  a  dog  about  as  your  Rover,  but  you  've 
let  him  get  spoilt ;  these  days  I  don't  see 
him  leave  the  yard.  You  ought  to  keep  the 
women  folks  from  overfeedin'  of  him  so. 
He  ought  to  've  lasted  a  good  spell  longer. 
He 's  no  use  for  huntin'  now,  that 's  certain." 

Isaac  accepted  the  rebuke  meekly.  John 
York  was  a  calm  man,  but  he  now  grew  very 
fierce  under  such  a  provocation.  Nobody 
likes  to  be  hindered  in  a  coon-hunt. 

"  Oh,  Rover 's  too  old,  anyway,"  explained 
the  affectionate  master  regretfully.  "I've 


144  THE    COON  DOG. 

been  wishing  all  this  afternoon  I  'd  brought 
him ;  but  I  did  n't  think  anything  about 
him  as  we  came  away,  I  've  got  so  used  to 
seeing  him  layin'  about  the  yard.  'T  would 
have  been  a  real  treat  for  old  Rover,  if  he 
could  have  kept  up.  Used  to  be  at  my  heels 
the  whole  time.  He  could  n't  follow  us, 
anyway,  up  here." 

"  I  should  n't  wonder  if  he  could,"  insisted 
John, .with  a  humorous  glance  at  his  old 
friend,  who  was  much  too  heavy  and  huge  of 
girth  for  quick  transit  over  rough  ground. 
John  York  himself  had  grown  lighter  as  he 
had  grown  older. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  one  thing  we  could  do,"  he 
hastened  to  suggest.  "  There  's  that  dog  of 
'Bijah  Topliff's.  Don't  you  know  the  old 
lady  told  us,  that  day  she  went  over  to  Dip- 
ford,  how  high  he  was  valued?  Most  o' 
'Bijah's  important  business  was  done  in  the 
fall,  goin'  out  by  night,  gunning  with  fellows 
from  the  mills.  He  was  just  the  kind  of  a 
worthless  do-nothing  that 's  sure  to  have  an 
extra  knowin'  smart  dog.  I  expect  'Liza 
Jane  's  got  him  now.  Perhaps  we  could  get 
him  by  to-morrow  night.  Let  one  o'  my 
boys  go  over  !  " 

"  Why,  'Liza  Jane  's  come,  bag  an'  bag- 


TEE   COON  DOG.  145 

gage,  to  spend  the  winter  with  her  mother," 
exclaimed  Isaac  Brown,  springing  to  his  feet 
like  a  boy.  "  I  've  had  it  in  mind  to  tell  you 
two  or  three  times  this  afternoon,  and  then 
something  else  has  flown  it  out  of  my  head. 
I  let  my  John  Henry  take  the  long-tailed 
wagon  an'  go  down  to  the  depot  this  morn- 
in'  to  fetch  her  an'  her  goods  up.  The  old 
lady  come  in  early,  while  we  were  to  break 
fast,  and  to  hear  her  lofty  talk  you  'd 
thought 't  would  taken  a  couple  o'  four-horse 
teams  to  move  her.  I  told  John  Henry  he 
might  take  that  wagon  and  fetch  -up  what 
light  stuff  he  could,  and  see  how  much  else 
there  was,  an'  then  I  'd  make  further  ar 
rangements.  She  said  'Liza  Jane  'd  see  me 
well  satisfied,  an'  rode  off,  pleased  to  death. 
I  see  'em  returnin'  about  eight,  after  the 
train  was  in.  They  'd  got  'Liza  Jane  with 
'em,  smaller  'n  ever  ;  and  there  was  a  trunk 
tied  up  with  a  rope,  and  a  small  roll  o' 
beddin'  and  braided  mats,  and  a  quilted 
rockin'-chair.  The  old  lady  was  holdin'  on 
tight  to  a  bird-cage  with  nothin'  in  it.  Yes ; 
an'  I  see  the  dog,  too,  in  behind.  He  ap 
peared  kind  of  timid.  He  's  a  yaller  dog, 
but  he  ain't  stump-tailed.  They  hauled  up 
out  front  o'  the  house,  and  mother  an'  I  went 


146  THE   COON  DOG. 

right  out ;  Mis'  Price  always  expects  to  have 
notice  taken.  She  was  in  great  sperits.  Said 
'Liza  Jane  concluded  to  sell  off  most  of  her 
stuff  rather  'n  have  the  care  of  it.  She  'd 
told  the  folks  that  Mis'  Topliff  had  a  beau 
tiful  sofa  and  a  lot  o'  nice  chairs,  and  two 
framed  pictures  that  would  fix  up  the  house 
complete,  and  invited  us  all  to  come  over 
and  see  'em.  There,  she  seemed  just  as 
pleased  returnin'  with  the  bird-cage.  Dis 
appointments  don't  appear  to  trouble  her  no 
more  than  a  butterfly.  I  kind  of  like  the 
old  creatur' ;  I  don't  mean  to  see  her  want." 

"  They  '11  let  us  have  the  dog,"  said  John 
York.  "  I  don't  know  but  I  '11  give  a  quar 
ter  for  him,  and  we  '11  let  'em  have  a  good 
piece  o'  the  coon." 

"  You  really  comin'  'way  up  here  by  night, 
coon-huntin'  ?  "  asked  Isaac  Brown,  looking 
reproachfully  at  his  more  agile  comrade. 

"  I  be,"  answered  John  York. 

"  I  was  dre'tful  afraid  you  was  only  talk 
ing,  and  might  back  out,"  returned  the 
cheerful  heavy-weight,  with  a  chuckle.  "  Now 
we  've  got  things  all  fixed,  I  feel  more  like 
it  than  ever.  I  tell  you  there 's  just  boy 
enough  left  inside  of  me.  I  '11  clean  up  my 
old  gun  to-morrow  mornin',  and  you  look 


THE   COON  DOG.  147 

right  after  your'n.  I  dare  say  the  boys  have 
took  good  care  of  'em  for  us,  but  they  don't 
know  what  we  do  about  huntin',  and  we  '11 
bring  'em  all  along  and  show  'em  a  little 
fun." 

"  All  right,"  said  John  York,  as  soberly 
as  if  they  were  going  to  look  after  a  piece 
of  business  for  the  town  ;  and  they  gathered 
up  the  axe  and  other  light  possessions,  and 
started  toward  home. 


III. 

The  two  friends,  whether  by  accident  or 
design,  came  out  of  the  woods  some  distance 
from  their  own  houses,  but  very  near  to  the 
low-storied  little  gray  dwelling  of  Mrs.  Price. 
They  crossed  the  pasture,  and  climbed  over 
the  toppling  fence  at  the  foot  of  her  small 
sandy  piece  of  land,  and  knocked  at  the 
door.  There  was  a  light  already  in  the 
kitchen.  Mrs.  Price  and  Eliza  Jane  Top- 
liff  appeared  at  once,  eagerly  hospitable. 

"  Anybody  sick  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Price,  with 
instant  sympathy.  "  Nothin'  happened,  I 
hope?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  both  the  men. 

"  We  came  to  talk  about  hiring  your  dog 


148  THE   COON  DOG. 

to-morrow  night,"  explained  Isaac  Brown, 
feeling  for  the  moment  amused  at  his  eager 
errand.  "  We  got  on  track  of  a  coon  just 
now,  up  in  the  woods,  and  we  thought  we  'd 
give  our  boys  a  little  treat.  You  shall  have 
fifty  cents,  an'  welcome,  and  a  good  piece 
o'  the  coon." 

"  Yes,  Square  Brown ;  we  can  let  you  have 
the  dog  as  well  as  not,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Price,  delighted  to  grant  a  favor.  "  Poor 
departed  'Bijah,  he  set  everything  by  him  as 
a  coon  dog.  He  always  said  a  dog's  capital 
was  all  in  his  reputation." 

"  You  '11  have  to  be  dreadful  careful  an' 
not  lose  him,"  urged  Mrs.  Topliff.  "  Yes, 
sir  ;  he  's  a  proper  coon  dog  as  ever  walked 
the  earth,  but  he 's  terrible  weak-minded 
about  followin'  'most  anybody.  'Bijah  used 
to  travel  off  twelve  or  fourteen  miles  after 
him  to  git  him  back,  when  he  wa'n't  able. 
Somebody  'd  speak  to  him  decent,  or  fling 
a  whip-lash  as  they  drove  by,  an'  off  he  'd 
canter  on  three  legs  right  after  the  wagon. 
But  'Bijah  said  he  would  n't  trade  him  for 
no  coon  dog  he  ever  was  acquainted  with. 
Trouble  is,  coons  is  awful  sca'ce." 

"  I  guess  he  ain't  out  o'  practice,"  said 
John  York  amiably ;  "  I  guess  he  '11  know 


THE   COON  DOG.  149 

when  he  strikes  the  coon.  Come,  Isaac,  we 
must  be  gittin'  along  tow'ds  home.  I  feel 
like  eathr  a  good  supper.  You  tie  him  up 
to-morrow  afternoon,  so  we  shall  be  sure  to 
have  him,"  he  turned  to  say  to  Mrs.  Price, 
who  stood  smiling  at  the  door. 

"  Land  sakes,  dear,  he  won't  git  away ; 
you  '11  find  him  right  there  betwixt  the 
wood-box  and  the  stove,  where  he  is  now. 
Hold  the  light,  'Liza  Jane ;  they  can't  see 
their  way  out  to  the  road.  I  '11  fetch  him 
over  to  ye  in  good  season,"  she  called  out, 
by  way  of  farewell ;  "  't  will  save  ye  third 
of  a  mile  extra  walk.  No,  'Liza  Jane ; 
you  '11  let  me  do  it,  if  you  please.  I  've  got 
a  mother's  heart.  The  gentlemen  will  ex 
cuse  us  for  showin'  feelin'.  You  're  all  the 
child  I  've  got,  an'  your  prosperity  is  the 
same  as  mine." 

IV. 

The  great  night  of  the  coon-hunt  was 
frosty  and  still,  with  only  a  dim  light  from 
the  new  moon.  John  York  and  his  boys, 
and  Isaac  Brown,  whose  excitement  was 
very  great,  set  forth  across  the  fields  toward 
the  dark  woods.  The  men  seemed  younger 
and  gayer  than  the  boys.  There  was  a 


150  THE   COON  DOG. 

burst  of  laughter  when  John  Henry  Brown 
and  his  little  brother  appeared  with  the 
coon  dog  of  the  late  Mr.  Abijah  Topliff, 
which  had  promptly  run  away  home  again 
after  Mrs.  Price  had  coaxed  him  over  in  the 
afternoon.  The  captors  had  tied  a  string 
round  his  neck,  at  which  they  pulled  vigor 
ously  from  time  to  time  to  urge  him  for 
ward.  Perhaps  he  found  the  night  too  cold  ; 
at  any  rate,  he  stopped  short  in  the  frozen 
furrows  every  few  minutes,  lifting  one  foot 
and  whining  a  little.  Half  a  dozen  times 
he  came  near  to  tripping  up  Mr.  Isaac 
Brown  and  making  him  fall  at  full  length. 

"  Poor  Tiger !  poor  Tiger  !  "  said  the 
good-natured  sportsman,  when  somebody 
said  that  the  dog  did  n't  act  as  if  he  were 
much  used  to  being  out  by  night.  "  He  '11 
be  all  right  when  he  once  gets  track  of  the 
coon."  But  when  they  were  fairly  in  the 
woods,  Tiger's  distress  was  perfectly  genuine. 
The  long  rays  of  light  from  the  old-fashioned 
lanterns  of  pierced  tin  went  wheeling  round 
and  round,  making  a  tall  ghost  of  every 
tree,  and  strange  shadows  went  darting  in 
and  out  behind  the  pines.  The  woods  were 
like  an  interminable  pillared  room  where 
the  darkness  made  a  high  ceiling.  The 


THE   COON  DOG.  151 

clean  frosty  smell  of  the  open  fields  was 
changed  for  a  warmer  air,  damp  with  the 
heavy  odor  of  moss  and  fallen  leaves.  There 
was  something  wild  and  delicious  in  the 
forest  in  that  hour  of  night.  The  men  and 
boys  tramped  on  silently  in  single  file,  as  if 
they  followed  the  flickering  light  instead  of 
carrying  it.  The  dog  fell  back  by  instinct, 
as  did  his  companions,  into  the  easy  famil 
iarity  of  forest  life.  He  ran  beside  them, 
and  watched  eagerly  as  they  chose  a  safe 
place  to  leave  a  coat  or  two  and  a  basket. 
He  seemed  to  be  an  affectionate  dog,  now 
that  he  had  made  acquaintance  with  his 
masters. 

"  Seems  to  me  he  don't  exactly  know 
what  he  's  about,"  said  one  of  the  York 
boys  scornfully ;  "  we  must  have  struck 
that  coon's  track  somewhere,  comin'  in." 

"  We  '11  get  through  talkin',  an'  heap  up 
a  little  somethin'  for  a  fire,  if  you  '11  turn  to 
and  help,"  said  his  father.  "  I  've  always 
noticed  that  nobody  can  give  so  much  good 
advice  about  a  piece  o'  work  as  a  new  hand. 
When  you  Ve  treed  as  many  coons  as  your 
Uncle  Brown  an'  me,  you  won't  feel  so  cer 
tain.  Isaac,  you  be  the  one  to  take  the  dog 
up  round  the  ledge,  there.  He  '11  scent  the 


152  TEE   COON  DOG. 

coon  quick  enough  then.  We  '11  'tend  to 
this  part  o'  the  business." 

"  You  may  come  too,  John  Henry,"  said 
the  indulgent  father,  and  they  set  off  to 
gether  silently  with  the  coon  dog.  He  fol 
lowed  well  enough  now;  his  tail  and  ears 
were  drooping  even  more  than  usual,  but  he 
whimpered  along  as  bravely  as  he  could> 
much  excited,  at  John  Henry's  heels,  like 
one  of  those  great  soldiers  who  are  all  un 
nerved  until  the  battle  is  well  begun. 

A  minute  later  the  father  and  son  came 
hurrying  back,  breathless,  and  stumbling 
over  roots  and  bushes.  The  fire  was  already 
lighted,  and  sending  a  great  glow  higher 
and  higher  among  the  trees. 

"  He 's  off !  He  's  struck  a  track !  He 
was  off  like  a  major  !  "  wheezed  Mr.  Isaac 
Brown. 

"  Which  way  'd  he  go  ? "  asked  every 
body. 

"  Right  out  toward  the  fields.  Like  's 
not  the  old  fellow  was  just  starting  after 
more  of  our  fowls.  I  'm  glad  we  come 
early,  —  he  can't  have  got  far  yet.  We  can't 
do  nothin'  but  wait  now,  boys.  I  '11  set 
right  down  here." 

"  Soon  as  the  coon  trees,  you  '11  hear  the 


THE   COON  DOG.  153 

dog  sing,  now  I  tell  you !  "  said  John  York, 
with  great  enthusiasm.  "  That  night  your 
father  an'  me  got  those  four  busters  we  've 
told  you  about,  they  come  right  back  here 
to  the  ledge.  I  don't  know  but  they  will 
now.  'T  was  a  dreadful  cold  night,  I  know. 
We  did  n't  get  home  till  past  three  o'clock 
in  the  mornin',  either.  You  remember, 
don't  you,  Isaac  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  Isaac.  "  How  old  Eover 
worked  that  night !  Could  n't  see  out  of 
his  eyes,  nor  hardly  wag  his  clever  old  tail, 
for  two  days ;  thorns  in  both  his  fore  paws, 
and  the  last  coon  took  a  piece  right  out  of 
his  off  shoulder." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  let  Rover  come  to 
night,  father  ? "  asked  the  younger  boy. 
"  I  think  he  knew  somethin'  was  up.  He 
was  jumpin'  round  at  a  great  rate  when  I 
come  out  of  the  yard." 

"  I  did  n't  know  but  he  might  make 
trouble  for  the  other  dog,"  answered  Isaac, 
after  a  moment's  silence.  Pie  felt  almost 
disloyal  to  the  faithful  creature,  and  had 
been  missing  him  all  the  way.  "  'Sh !  there  's 
a  bark  !  "  And  they  all  stopped  to  listen. 

The  fire  was  leaping  higher ;  they  all  sat 
near  it,  listening  and  talking  by  turns. 


154  THE   COON  DOG. 

There  is  apt  to  be  a  good  deal  of  waiting  in 
a  coon-hunt. 

"  If  Kover  was  young  as  he  used  to  be, 
I'd  resk  him  to  tree  any  coon  that  ever 
run,"  said  the  regretful  master.  "  This 
smart  creature  o'  Topliff's  can't  beat  him, 
I  know.  The  poor  old  fellow's  eyesight 
seems  to  be  going.  Two  —  three  times  he 's 
run  out  at  me  right  in  broad  day,  an'  barked 
when  I  come  up  the  yard  toward  the  house, 
and  I  did  pity  him  dreadfully;  he  was  so 
'shamed  when  he  found  out  what  he  'd 
done.  Rover 's  a  dog  that 's  got  an  awful 
lot  o'  pride.  He  went  right  off  out  behind 
the  long  barn  the  last  time,  and  would  n't 
come  in  for  nobody  when  they  called  him 
to  supper  till  I  went  out  myself  and  made  it 
up  with  him.  No ;  he  can't  see  very  well 
now,  Rover  can't." 

"  He  's  heavy,  too  ;  he  's  got  too  unwieldy 
to  tackle  a  smart  coon,  I  expect,  even  if  he 
could  do  the  tall  runnin',"  said  John  York, 
with  sympathy.  "  They  have  to  get  a  mas 
ter  grip  with  their  teeth  through  a  coon's 
thick  pelt  this  time  o'  year.  No ;  the  young 
folks  gets  all  the  good  chances  after  a 
while ;  "  and  he  looked  round  indulgently 
at  the  chubby  faces  of  his  boys,  who  fed 


THE   COON  DOG.  155 

the  fire,  and  rejoiced  in  being  promoted  to 
the  society  of  their  elders  on  equal  terms. 
"  Ain't  it  time  we  heard  from  the  dog  ?  " 
And  they  all  listened,  while  the  fire  snapped 
and  the  sap  whistled  in  some  green  sticks. 

"  I  hear  him,"  said  John  Henry  sud 
denly  ;  and  faint  and  far  away  there  came 
the  sound  of  a  desperate  bark.  There  is  a 
bark  that  means  attack,  and  there  is  a  bark 
that  means  only  foolish  excitement. 

"  They  ain't  far  off !  "  said  Isaac.  "  My 
gracious,  he 's  right  after  him !  I  don't 
know 's  I  expected  that  poor-looking  dog  to 
be  so  smart.  You  can't  tell  by  their  looks. 
Quick  as  he  scented  the  game  up  here  in 
the  rocks,  off  he  put.  Perhaps  it  ain't 
any  matter  if  they  ain't  stump-tailed,  long  's 
they  're  yaller  dogs.  He  did  n't  look  heavy 
enough  to  me.  I  tell  you,  he  means  busi 
ness.  Hear  that  bark  !  " 

"  They  all  bark  alike  after  a  coon."  John 
York  was  as  excited  as  anybody.  "  Git 
the  guns  laid  out  to  hand,  boys  ;  I  told  you 
we  'd  ought  to  follow ! "  he  commanded. 
"  If  it 's  the  old  fellow  that  belongs  here,  he 
may  put  in  any  minute."  But  there  was 
again  a  long  silence  and  state  of  suspense ; 
the  chase  had  turned  another  way.  There 


156  THE   COON  DOG. 

were  faint  distant  yaps.  The  fire  burned 
low  and  fell  together  with  a  shower  of  sparks. 
The  smaller  boys  began  to  grow  chilly  and 
sleepy,  when  there  was  a  thud  and  rustle  and 
snapping  of  twigs  close  at  hand,  then  the 
gasp  of  a  breathless  dog.  Two  dim  shapes 
rushed  by ;  a  shower  of  bark  fell,  and  a  dog 
began  to  sing  at  the  foot  of  the  great  twisted 
pine  not  fifty  feet  away. 

"  Hooray  for  Tiger  !  "  yelled  the  boys  ; 
but  the  dog's  voice  filled  all  the  woods.  It 
might  have  echoed  to  the  mountain-tops. 
There  was  the  old  coon ;  they  could  all 
see  him  half-way  up  the  tree,  flat  to  the 
great  limb.  They  heaped  the  fire  with  dry 
branches  till  it  flared  high.  Now  they  lost 
him  in  a  shadow  as  he  twisted  about  the 
tree.  John  York  fired,  and  Isaac  Brown 
fired,  and  the  boys  took  a  turn  at  the  guns, 
while  John  Henry  started  to  climb  a  neigh 
boring  oak;  but  at  last  it  was  Isaac  who 
brought  the  coon  to  ground  with  a  lucky 
shot,  and  the  dog  stopped  his  deafening  bark 
and  frantic  leaping  in  the  underbrush,  and 
after  an  astonishing  moment  of  silence  crept 
out,  a  proud  victor,  to  his  prouder  master's 
feet. 

"  Goodness  alive,  who  's  this  ?     Good  for 


THE   COON  DOG.  157 

you,  old  handsome  !  Why,  I  '11  be  hanged 
if  it  ain't  old  Rover,  boys  ;  it 's  old  Rover  !  " 
But  Isaac  could  not  speak  another  word. 
They  all  crowded  round  the  wistful,  clumsy 
old  dog,  whose  eyes  shone  bright,  though  his 
breath  was  all  gone.  Each  man  patted  him, 
and  praised  him,  and  said  they  ought  to 
have  mistrusted  all  the  time  that  it  could  be 
nobody  but  he.  It  was  some  minutes  before 
Isaac  Brown  could  trust  himself  to  do  any 
thing  but  pat  the  sleek  old  head  that  was 
always  ready  to  his  hand. 

"  He  must  have  overheard  us  talkin' ;  I 
guess  he  'd  have  come  if  he  'd  dropped  dead 
half-way,"  proclaimed  John  Henry,  like  a 
prince  of  the  reigning  house ;  and  Rover 
wagged  his  tail  as  if  in  honest  assent,  as  he 
lay  at  his  master's  side.  They  sat  together, 
while  the  fire  was  brightened  again  to  make 
a  good  light  for  the  coon-hunt  supper ;  and 
Rover  had  a  good  half  of  everything  that 
found  its  way  into  his  master's  hand.  It 
was  toward  midnight  when  the  triumphal 
procession  set  forth  toward  home,  with  the 
two  lanterns,  across  the  fields. 


158  THE   COON  DOG. 

V. 

The  next  morning  was  bright  and  warm 
after  the  hard  frost  of  the  night  before. 
Old  Rover  was  asleep  on  the  doorstep  in  the 
sun,  and  his  master  stood  in  the  yard,  and 
saw  neighbor  Price  come  along  the  road  in 
her  best  array,  with  a  gay  holiday  air. 

"  Well,  now,"  she  said  eagerly,  "  you 
wa'n't  out  very  late  last  night,  was  you  ?  I 
got  up  myself  to  let  Tiger  in.  He  come 
home,  all  beat  out,  about  a  quarter  past  nine. 
I  expect  you  had  n't  no  kind  o'  trouble  git- 
tin'  the  coon.  The  boys  was  tellin'  me  he 
weighed  'most  thirty  pounds." 

"Oh,  no  kind  o'  trouble,"  said  Isaac, 
keeping  the  great  secret  gallantly.  "You 
got  the  things  I  sent  over  this  mornin'  ?  " 

"  Bless  your  heart,  yes !  I  'd  a  sight 
rather  have  all  that  good  pork  an'  potatoes 
than  any  o'  your  wild  meat,"  said  Mrs. 
Price,  smiling  with  prosperity.  "  You  see, 
now,  'Liza  Jane  she  's  given  in.  She  did  n't 
re'lly  know  but  't  was  all  talk  of  'Bijah 
'bout  that  dog 's  bein'  wuth  fifty  dollars. 
She  says  she  can't  cope  with  a  huntin'  dog 
same  's  he  could,  an'  she  's  given  me  the 
money  you  an'  John  York  sent  over  this 


THE   COON  DOG.  159 

mornin' ;  an'  I  did  n't  know  but  what  you  'd 
lend  me  another  half  a  dollar,  so  I  could 
both  go  to  Dipford  Centre  an'  return,  an' 
see  if  I  could  n't  make  a  sale  o'  Tiger  right 
over  there  where  they  all  know  about  him. 
It 's  right  in  the  coon  season ;  now  's  my 
time,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  gettin'  a  little  late,"  said  Isaac, 
shaking  with  laughter  as  he  took  the  desired 
sum  of  money  out  of  his  pocket.  "  He 
seems  to  be  a  clever  dog  round  the  house." 

"  I  don't  know  's  I  want  to  harbor  him  all 
winter,"  answered  the  excursionist  frankly, 
striking  into  a  good  traveling  gait  as  she 
started  off  toward  the  railroad  station. 


AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT. 


"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Hand,  speaking  wist 
fully,  —  "  no,  we  never  were  in  the  habit  of 
keeping  Christmas  at  our  house.  Mother 
died  when  we  were  all  young ;  she  would 
have  been  the  one  to  keep  up  with  all  new 
ideas,  but  father  and  grandmother  were  old- 
fashioned  folks,  and  —  well,  you  know  how 
't  was  then,  Miss  Pendexter :  nobody  took 
much  notice  of  the  day  except  to  wish  you  a 
Merry  Christmas." 

"  They  did  n't  do  much  to  make  it  merry, 
certain,"  answered  Miss  Pendexter.  "  Some 
times  nowadays  I  hear  folks  complainin'  o' 
bein'  overtaxed  with  all  the  Christmas  work 
they  have  to  do." 

"  Well,  others  think  that  it  makes  a  lovely 
chance  for  all  that  really  enjoys  givin' ;  you 
get  an  opportunity  to  speak  your  kind  f  eelin' 
right  out,"  answered  Mrs.  Hand,  with  a 
bright  smile.  "  But  there  !  I  shall  always 
keep  New  Year's  Day,  too ;  it  won't  do  no 


AUNT   CYNTHY  DALLETT.  161 

hurt  to  have  an  extra  day  kept  an'  made 
pleasant.  And  there 's  many  of  the  real  old 
folks  have  got  pretty  things  to  remember 
about  New  Year's  Day." 

"  Aunt  Cynthy  Dallett  's  just  one  of  'em," 
said  Miss  Pendexter.  "  She 's  always  very 
reproachful  if  I  don't  get  up  to  see  her. 
.Last  year  I  missed  it,  on  account  of  a  light 
fall  o'  snow  that  seemed  to  make  the  walkin' 
too  bad,  an'  she  sent  a  neighbor's  boy  'way 
down  from  the  mount'in  to  see  if  I  was 
sick.  Her  lameness  confines  her  to  the  house 
altogether  now,  an'  I  have  her  on  my  mind 
a  good  deal.  How  anybody  does  get  thinkin' 
of  those  that  lives  alone,  as  they  get  older ! 
I  waked  up  only  last  night  with  a  start, 
thinkin'  if  Aunt  Cynthy's  house  should  get 
afire  or  anything,  what  she  would  do,  'way 
up  there  all  alone.  I  was  half  dreamin',  I 
s'pose,  but  I  could  n't  seem  to  settle  down 
until  I  got  up  an'  went  upstairs  to  the  north 
garret  window  to  see  if  I  could  see  any  light ; 
but  the  mountains  was  all  dark  an'  safe, 
same  's  usual.  I  remember  noticin'  last 
time  I  was  there  that  her  chimney  needed 
pointin',  and  I  spoke  to  her  about  it,  —  the 
bricks  looked  poor  in  some  places." 

"  Can  you  see  the  house  from  your  north 


162     AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT. 

gable  window  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Hand,  a  little 
absently. 

"  Yes  'm ;  it 's  a  great  comfort  that  I  can," 
answered  her  companion.  "  I  have  often 
wished  we  were  near  enough  to  have  her 
make  me  some  sort  o'  signal  in  case  she 
needed  help.  I  used  to  plead  with  her  to 
come  down  and  spend  the  winters  with  me, 
but  she  told  me  one  day  I  might  as  well  try 
to  fetch  down  one  o'  the  old  hemlocks,  an'  I 
believe  't  was  true." 

"  Your  aunt  Dallett  is  a  very  self-contained 
person,"  observed  Mrs.  Hand. 

"  Oh,  very !  "  exclaimed  the  elderly  niece, 
with  a  pleased  look.  "  Aunt  Cynthy  laughs, 
an'  says  she  expects  the  time  will  come  when 
age  '11  compel  her  to  have  me  move  up  an' 
take  care  of  her  ;  and  last  time  I  was  there 
she  looked  up  real  funny,  an'  says,  '  I  do' 
know,  Abby ;  I  'm  most  af eard  sometimes 
that  I  feel  myself  beginnin'  to  look  for'ard 
to  it ! '  'T  was  a  good  deal,  comin'  from 
Aunt  Cynthy,  an'  I  so  esteemed  it." 

"  She  ought  to  have  you  there  now,"  said 
Mrs.  Hand.  "  You  'd  both  make  a  savin'  by 
doin'  it;  but  I  don't  expect  she  needs  to 
save  as  much  as  some.  There  !  I  know  just 
how  you  both  feel.  I  like  to  have  my  own 


AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT.      163 

home  an'  do  everything  just  my  way  too." 
And  the  friends  laughed,  and  looked  at  each 
other  affectionately. 

"  There  was  old  Mr.  Nathan  Dunn,  — 
left  no  debts  an'  no  money  when  he  died," 
said  Mrs.  Hand.  "  'T  was  over  to  his  niece's 
last  summer.  He  had  a  little  money  in  his 
wallet,  an'  when  the  bill  for  funeral  expenses 
come  in  there  was  just  exactly  enough  ; 
some  item  or  other  made  it  come  to  so  many 
dollars  an'  eighty-four  cents,  and,  lo  an'  be 
hold  !  there  was  eighty-four  cents  in  a  little 
separate  pocket  beside  the  neat  fold  o'  bills, 
as  if  the  old  gentleman  had  known  before 
hand.  His  niece  could  n't  help  laughin',  to 
save  her  ;  she  said  the  old  gentleman  died  as 
methodical  as  he  lived.  She  did  n't  expect 
he  had  any  money,  an'  was  prepared  to  pay 
for  everything  herself ;  she  's  very  well  off." 

"  'T  was  funny,  certain,"  said  Miss  Pen- 
dexter.  "  I  expect  he  felt  comfortable, 
knowin'  he  had  that  money  by  him.  'T  is  a 
comfort,  when  all 's  said  and  done,  'specially 
to  folks  that 's  gettin'  old." 

A  sad  look  shadowed  her  face  for  an  in 
stant,  and  then  she  smiled  and  rose  to  take 
leave,  looking  expectantly  at  her  hostess  to 
see  if  there  were  anything  more  to  be  said. 


164     AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT. 

"  I  hope  to  come  out  square  myself,"  she 
said,  by  way  of  farewell  pleasantry:  "but 
there  are  times  when  I  feel  doubtful." 

Mrs.  Hand  was  evidently  considering 
something,  and  waited  a  moment  or  two  be 
fore  she  spoke.  "  Suppose  we  both  walk  up 
to  see  your  aunt  Dallett,  New  Year's  Day,  if 
it  ain't  too  windy  and  the  snow  keeps  off  ?  " 
she  proposed.  "  I  could  n't  rise  the  hill 
if  't  was  a  windy  day.  We  could  take  a 
hearty  breakfast  an'  start  in  good  season ; 
I  'd  rather  walk  than  ride,  the  road 's  so 
rough  this  time  o'  year." 

"  Oh,  what  a  person  you  are  to  think  o' 
things  !  I  did  so  dread  goin'  'way  up  there 
all  alone,"  said  Abby  Pendexter.  "  I  'm  no 
hand  to  go  off  alone,  an'  I  had  it  before  me, 
so  I  really  got  to  dread  it.  I  do  so  enjoy  it 
after  I  get  there,  seein'  Aunt  Cynthy,  an' 
she  's  always  so  much  better  than  I  expect  to 
find  her." 

"  Well,  we  '11  start  early,"  said  Mrs. 
Hand  cheerfully ;  and  so  they  parted.  As 
Miss  Pendexter  went  down  the  foot-path  to 
the  gate,  she  sent  grateful  thoughts  back  to 
the  little  sitting-room  she  had  just  left. 

"  How  doors  are  opened !  "  she  exclaimed 
to  herself.  "  Here  I  've  been  so  poor  an' 


AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT.      165 

distressed  at  beginnin'  the  year  with  nothin', 
as  it  were,  that  I  could  n't  think  o'  even  goin' 
to  make  poor  old  Aunt  Cynthy  a  friendly 
call.  I  '11  manage  to  make  some  kind  of 
a  little  pleasure  too,  an'  somethin'  for  dear 
Mis'  Hand.  *  Use  what  you  've  got,'  mother 
always  used  to  say  when  every  sort  of  an 
emergency  come  up,  an'  I  may  only  have 
wishes  to  give,  but  I  '11  make  'em  good  ones ! " 

II. 

The  first  day  of  the  year  was  clear  and 
bright,  as  if  it  were  a  New  Year's  pattern 
of  what  winter  can  be  at  its  very  best.  The 
two  friends  were  prepared  for  changes  of 
weather,  and  met  each  other  well  wrapped 
in  their  winter  cloaks  and  shawls,  with  suffi 
cient  brown  barege  veils  tied  securely  over 
their  bonnets.  They  ignored  for  some  time 
the  plain  truth  that  each  carried  something 
under  her  arm ;  the  shawls  were  rounded 
out  suspiciously,  especially  Miss  Pendexter's, 
but  each  respected  the  other's  air  of  secrecy. 
The  narrow  road  was  frozen  in  deep  ruts, 
but  a  smooth-trodden  little  foot-path  that 
ran  along  its  edge  was  very  inviting  to  the 
wayfarers.  Mrs.  Hand  walked  first  and 


166      AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT. 

Miss  Pendexter  followed,  and  they  were  talk 
ing  busily  nearly  all  the  way,  so  that  they 
had  to  stop  for  breath  now  and  then  at  the 
tops  of  the  little  hills.  It  was  not  a  hard 
walk ;  there  were  a  good  many  almost  level 
stretches  through  the  woods,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  they  should  be  a  very  great  deal 
higher  when  they  reached  Mrs.  Dallett's 
door. 

"  I  do  declare,  what  a  nice  day  't  is,  an' 
such  pretty  footin'  !  "  said  Mrs.  Hand,  with 
satisfaction.  "Seems  to  me  as  if  my  feet 
went  o'  themselves  ;  gener'lly  I  have  to  toil 
so  when  I  walk  that  I  can't  enjoy  nothin' 
when  I  get  to  a  place." 

"It's  partly  this  beautiful  bracin'  air," 
said  Abby  Pendexter.  "  Sometimes  such 
nice  air  comes  just  before  a  fall  of  snow. 
Don't  it  seem  to  make  anybody  feel  young 
again  and  to  take  all  your  troubles  away  ?  " 

Mrs.  Hand  was  a  comfortable,  well-to-do 
soul,  who  seldom  worried  about  anything, 
but  something  in  her  companion's  tone 
touched  her  heart,  and  she  glanced  sidewise 
and  saw  a  pained  look  in  Abby  Pendexter's 
thin  face.  It  was  a  moment  for  confidence. 

"  Why,  you  speak  as  if  something  dis 
tressed  your  mind,  Abby,"  said  the  elder 
woman  kindly. 


AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT.      167 

"I  ain't  one  that  has  myself  on  my  mind 
as  a  usual  thing,  but  it  does  seem  now  as  if 
I  was  goin'  to  have  it  very  hard,"  said  Abby. 
"  Well,  I  've  been  anxious  before." 

"Is  it  anything  wrong  about  your  pro 
perty  ?  "  Mrs.  Hand  ventured  to  ask. 

"  Only  that  I  ain't  got  any,"  answered 
Abby,  trying  to  speak  gayly.  "  'T  was  all 
I  could  do  to  pay  my  last  quarter's  rent, 
twelve  dollars.  I  sold  my  hens,  all  but  this 
one  that  had  run  away  at  the  time,  an'  now 
I  'm  carryin'  her  up  to  Aunt  Cynthy,  roasted 
just  as  nice  as  I  know  how." 

"  I  thought  you  was  carrying  somethin'," 
said  Mrs.  Hand,  in  her  usual  tone.  "  For 
me,  I  've  got  a  couple  o'  my  mince  pies.  I 
thought  the  old  lady  might  like  'em ;  one 
we  can  eat  for  our  dinner,  and  one  she  shall 
have  to  keep.  But  were  n't  you  unwise  to 
sacrifice  your  poultry,  Abby  ?  You  always 
need  eggs,  and  hens  don't  cost  much  to  keep." 

"  Why,  yes,  I  shall  miss  'em,"  said  Abby ; 
"  but,  you  see,  I  had  to  do  every  way  to  get 
my  rent-money.  Now  the  shop 's  shut  down 
I  have  n't  got  any  way  of  earnin'  anything, 
and  I  spent  what  little  I  've  saved  through 
the  summer." 

"Your  aunt   Cynthy  ought  to  know  it 


168     AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT. 

an'  ought  to  help  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hand. 
"  You  're  a  real  foolish  person,  I  must  say. 
I  expect  you  do  for  her  when  she  ought  to 
do  for  you." 

"  She  's  old,  an'  she  's  all  the  near  relation 
I  Ve  got,"  said  the  little  woman.  "  I  Ve 
always  felt  the  time  would  come  when  she  'd 
need  me,  but  it 's  been  her  great  pleasure  to 
live  alone  an'  feel  free.  I  shall  get  along 
somehow,  but  I  shall  have  it  hard.  Some 
body  may  want  help  for  a  spell  this  winter, 
but  I  'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  give  up  my 
house.  'T  ain't  as  if  I  owned  it.  I  don't 
know  just  what  to  do,  but  there'll  be  a  way." 

Mrs.  Hand  shifted  her  two  pies  to  the 
other  arm,  and  stepped  across  to  the  other 
side  of  the  road  where  the  ground  looked  a 
little  smoother. 

"No,  I  wouldn't  worry  if  I  was  you, 
Abby,"  she  said.  "There,  I  suppose  if 
't  was  me  I  should  worry  a  good  deal  more ! 
I  expect  I  should  lay  awake  nights."  But 
Abby  answered  nothing,  and  they  came  to  a 
steep  place  in  the  road  and  found  another 
subject  for  conversation  at  the  top. 

"  Your  aunt  don't  know  we  're  coming  ?  " 
asked  the  chief  guest  of  the  occasion. 

"Oh,  no,  I  never  send  her  word,"  said 


AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT.     169 

Miss  Pendexter.  "  She  'd  be  so  desirous  to 
get  everything  ready,  just  as  she  used  to." 

"  She  never  seemed  to  make  any  trouble 
o'  havin'  company ;  she  always  appeared  so 
easy  and  pleasant,  and  let  you  set  with  her 
while  she  made  her  preparations,"  said  Mrs. 
Hand,  with  great  approval.  "Some  has 
such  a  dreadful  way  of  making  you  feel  in 
opportune,  and  you  can't  always  send  word 
you  're  comin'.  I  did  have  a  visit  once  that 's 
always  been  a  lesson  to  me  ;  't  was  years  ago  ; 
I  don't  know  's  I  ever  told  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  you  ever  did,"  responded 
the  listener  to  this  somewhat  indefinite  pre 
lude. 

"  Well,  't  was  one  hot  summer  afternoon. 
I  set  forth  an'  took  a  great  long  walk  'way 
over  to  Mis'  Eben  Fulham's,  on  the  cross 
road  between  the  cranberry  ma'sh  and  Sta- 
ples's  Corner.  The  doctor  was  drivin'  that 
way,  an'  he  give  me  a  lift  that  shortened  it 
some  at  the  last ;  but  I  never  should  have 
started,  if  I  'd  known  't  was  so  far.  I  had 
been  promisin'  all  summer  to  go,  and  every 
time  I  saw  Mis'  Fulham,  Sundays,  she  'd  say 
somethin'  about  it.  We  wa'n't  very  well 
acquainted,  but  always  friendly.  She  moved 
here  from  Bedford  Hill." 


170     AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  used  to  know  her,"  said 
Abby,  with  interest. 

"  Well,  now,  she  did  give  me  a  beautiful 
welcome  when  I  got  there,"  continued  Mrs. 
Hand.  "  'T  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  an'  I  told  her  I  'd  come  to  accept 
her  invitation  if  't  was  convenient,  an'  the 
doctor  had  been  called  several  miles  beyond 
and  expected  to  be  detained,  but  he  was  goin' 
to  pick  me  up  as  he  returned  about  seven  ; 
't  was  very  kind  of  him.  She  took  me  right 
in,  and  she  did  appear  so  pleased,  an'  I  must 
go  right  into  the  best  room  where  't  was  cool, 
and  then  she  said  she  'd  have  tea  early,  and 
I  should  have  to  excuse  her  a  short  time. 
I  asked  her  not  to  make  any  difference,  and 
if  I  could  n't  assist  her  ;  but  she  said  no,  I 
must  just  take  her  as  I  found  her  ;  and  she 
give  me  a  large  fan,  and  off  she  went. 

"  There.  I  was  glad  to  be  still  and  rest 
where  't  was  cool,  an'  I  set  there  in  the 
rockin'-chair  an'  enjoyed  it  for  a  while,  an' 
I  heard  her  clacking  at  the  oven  door  out 
beyond,  an'  gittin'  out  some  dishes.  She  was 
a  brisk-actin'  little  woman,  an'  I  thought  I  'd 
caution  her  when  she  come  back  not  to  make 
up  a  great  fire,  only  for  a  cup  o'  tea,  perhaps. 
I  started  to  go  right  out  in  the  kitchen,  an* 


AUNT   CYNTHY  DALLETT.  171 

then  somethin'  told  me  I  'd  better  not,  we 
never  'd  been  so  free  together  as  that ;  I 
did  n't  know  how  she  'd  take  it,  an'  there  I 
set  an'  set.  'T  was  sort  of  a  greenish  light 
in  the  best  room,  an'  it  begun  to  feel  a  little 
damp  to  me,  —  the  s'rubs  outside  grew  close 
up  to  the  windows.  Oh,  it  did  seem  dread 
ful  long  !  I  could  hear  her  busy  with  the 
dishes  an'  beatin'  eggs  an'  stirrin',  an'  I 
knew  she  was  puttin'  herself  out  to  get  up  a 
great  supper,  and  I  kind  o'  fidgeted  about 
a  little  an'  even  stepped  to  the  door,  but  I 
thought  she  'd  expect  me  to  remain  where  I 
was.  I  saw  everything  in  that  room  forty 
times  over,  an'  I  did  divert  myself  killin' 
off  a  brood  o'  moths  that  was  in  a  worsted, 
work  mat  on  the  table.  It  all  fell  to  pieces. 
I  never  saw  such  a  sight  o'  moths  to  once. 
But  occupation  failed  after  that,  an'  I  begun 
to  feel  sort  o'  tired  an'  numb.  There  was 
one  o'  them  late  crickets  got  into  the  room 
an'  begun  to  chirp,  an'  it  sounded  kind  o' 
fallish.  I  could  n't  help  sayin'  to  myself 
that  Mis'  Fulham  had  forgot  all  about  my 
bein'  there.  I  thought  of  all  the  beauties  of 
hospitality  that  ever  I  see  !  "  — 

"  Did  n't  she  ever  come  back  at  all,  not 
whilst  things  was  in  the  oven,  nor  nothin'  ?  " 
inquired  Miss  Pendexter,  with  awe. 


172     AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT. 

"I  never  see  her  again  till  she  come 
beamin'  to  the  parlor  door  an'  invited  me  to 
walk  out  to  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Hand.  "  'T  was 
'most  a  quarter  past  six  by  the  clock ;  I 
thought 't  was  seven.  I  'd  thought  o'  every 
thing,  an'  I  'd  counted,  an'  I  'd  trotted  my 
foot,  an'  I  'd  looked  more  'n  twenty  times  to 
see  if  there  was  any  more  moth-millers." 

"  I  s'pose  you  did  have  a  very  nice  tea  ?  " 
suggested  Abby,  with  interest. 

"  Oh,  a  beautiful  tea !  She  could  n't  have 
done  more  if  I  'd  been  the  Queen,"  said  Mrs. 
Hand.  "  I  don't  know  how  she  could  ever 
have  done  it  all  in  the  time,  I  'm  sure.  The 
table  was  loaded  down  ;  there  was  cup-cus 
tards  and  custard  pie,  an'  cream  pie,  an' 
two  kinds  o'  hot  biscuits,  an'  black  tea  as  well 
as  green,  an'  elegant  cake,  —  one  kind  she  'd 
just  made  new,  and  called  it  quick  cake ;  I  've 
often  made  it  since  —  an'  she  'd  opened  her 
best  preserves,  two  kinds.  We  set  down  to 
gether,  an'  I  'm  sure  I  appreciated  what  she  'd 
done ;  but  't  wa'n't  no  time  for  real  conver 
sation  whilst  we  was  to  the  table,  and  before 
we  got  quite  through  the  doctor  come  hurryin' 
along,  an'  I  had  to  leave.  He  asked  us  if 
we  'd  had  a  good  talk,  as  we  come  out,  an' 
I  could  n't  help  laughing  to  myself ;  but  she 


AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT.     173 

said  quite  hearty  that  she  'd  had  a  nice  visit 
from  me.  She  appeared  well  satisfied,  Mis' 
Fulham  did ;  but  for  me,  I  was  disappointed ; 
an'  early  that  fall  she  died." 

Abby  Pendexter  was  laughing  like  a  girl ; 
the  speaker's  tone  had  grown  more  and  more 
complaining.  "  I  do  call  that  a  funny  ex 
perience,"  she  said.  "  '  Better  a  dinner  o* 
herbs.'  I  guess  that  text  must  ha'  risen  to 
your  mind  in  connection.  You  must  tell 
that  to  Aunt  Cynthy,  if  conversation  seems 
to  fail."  And  she  laughed  again,  but  Mrs. 
Hand  still  looked  solemn  and  reproachful. 

"  Here  we  are ;  there 's  Aunt  Cynthy's  lane 
right  ahead,  there  by  the  great  yellow  birch," 
said  Abby.  "  I  must  say,  you  've  made  the 
way  seem  very  short,  Mis'  Hand." 

III. 

Old  Aunt  Cynthia  Dallett  sat  in  her  high- 
backed  rocking-chair  by  the  little  north 
window,  which  was  her  favorite  dwelling- 
place. 

"  New  Year's  Day  again,"  she  said,  aloud, 
—  "New  Year's  Day  again!"  And  she 
folded  her  old  bent  hands,  and  looked  out 
at  the  great  woodland  view  and  the  hills 


174  AUNT   C.YNTHY  DALLETT. 

without  really  seeing  them,  she  was  lost  in 
so  deep  a  reverie.  "  I  'm  gittin'  to  be  very 
old,"  she  added,  after  a  little  while. 

It  was  perfectly  still  in  the  small  gray 
house.  Outside  in  the  apple-trees  there 
were  some  blue-jays  flitting  about  and  call 
ing  noisily,  like  schoolboys  fighting  at  their 
games.  The  kitchen  was  full  of  pale  winter 
sunshine.  It  was  more  like  late  October 
than  the  first  of  January,  and  the  plain  little 
room  seemed  to  smile  back  into  the  sun  's 
face.  The  outer  door  was  standing  open 
into  the  green  dooryard,  and  a  fat  small 
dog  lay  asleep  on  the  step.  A  capacious 
cupboard  stood  behind  Mrs.  Dallett's  chair 
and  kept  the  wind  away  from  her  corner. 
Its  doors  and  drawers  were  painted  a  clean 
lead-color,  and  there  were  places  round  the 
knobs  and  buttons  where  the  touch  of  hands 
had  worn  deep  into  the  wood.  Every 
braided  rug  was  straight  on  the  floor.  The 
square  clock  on  its  shelf  between  the  front 
windows  looked  as  if  it  had  just  had  its  face 
washed  and  been  wound  up  for  a  whole  year 
to  come.  If  Mrs.  Dallett  turned  her  head 
she  could  look  into  the  bedroom,  where  her 
plump  feather  bed  was  covered  with  its  dark 
blue  homespun  winter  quilt.  It  was  all 


AUNT   CYNTHY  DALLE TT.  175 

very  peaceful  and  comfortable,  but  it  was 
very  lonely.  By  her  side,  on  a  light-stand, 
lay  the  religious  newspaper  of  her  denomi 
nation,  and  a  pair  of  spectacles  whose  jointed 
silver  bows  looked  like  a  funny  two-legged 
beetle  cast  helplessly  upon  its  back. 

"  New  Year's  Day  again,"  said  old  Cyn 
thia  Dallett.  Time  had  left  nobody  in  her 
house  to  wish  her  a  Happy  New  Year,  —  she 
was  the  last  one  left  in  the  old  nest.  "  I  'm 
gittin'  to  be  very  old,"  she  said  for  the 
second  time ;  it  seemed  to  be  all  there  was 
to  say. 

She  was  keeping  a  careful  eye  on  her 
friendly  clock,  but  it  was  hardly  past  the 
middle  of  the  morning,  and  there  was  no 
excuse  for  moving  ;  it  was  the  long  hour 
between  the  end  of  her  slow  morning  work 
and  the  appointed  time  for  beginning  to  get 
dinner.  She  was  so  stiff  and  lame  that  this 
hour's  rest  was  usually  most  welcome,  but 
to-day  she  sat  as  if  it  were  Sunday,  and  did 
not  take  up  her  old  shallow  splint  basket  of 
braiding-rags  from  the  side  of  her  footstool. 

"  I  do  hope  Abby  Pendexter  '11  make  out 
to  git  up  to  see  me  this  afternoon  as  usual," 
she  continued.  "  I  know  't  ain't  so  easy  for 
her  to  get  up  the  hill  as  it  used  to  be,  but  I 


176      AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT. 

do  seem  to  want  to  see  some  o'  my  own 
folks.  I  wish 't  I  'd  thought  to  send  her 
word  I  expected  her  when  Jabez  Hooper 
went  back  after  he  came  up  here  with  the 
flour.  I  'd  like  to  have  had  her  come  pre 
pared  to  stop  two  or  three  days." 

A  little  chickadee  perched  on  the  window- 
sill  outside  and  bobbed  his  head  sideways  to 
look  in,  and  then  pecked  impatiently  at  the 
glass.  The  old  woman  laughed  at  him  with 
childish  pleasure  and  felt  companioned ;  it 
was  pleasant  at  that  moment  to  see  the  life 
in  even  a  bird's  bright  eye. 

"  Sign  of  a  stranger,"  she  said,  as  he 
whisked  his  wings  and  flew  away  in  a  hurry. 
"  I  must  throw  out  some  crumbs  for  'em ; 
it 's  getting  to  be  hard  pickin'  for  the  stay- 
in'-birds."  She  looked  past  the  trees  of  her 
little  orchard  now  with  seeing  eyes,  and 
followed  the  long  forest  slopes  that  led  down 
ward  to  the  lowland  country.  She  could 
see  the  two  white  steeples  of  Fairfield  Vil 
lage,  and  the  map  of  fields  and  pastures 
along  the  valley  beyond,  and  the  great  hills 
across  the  valley  to  the  westward.  The 
scattered  houses  looked  like  toys  that  had 
been  scattered  by  children.  She  knew  their 
lights  by  night,  and  watched  the  smoke  of 


AUNT  CTNTHY  DALLETT.     177 

their  chimneys  by  day.  Far  to  the  north 
ward  were  higher  mountains,  and  these  were 
already  white  with  snow.  Winter  was  al 
ready  in  sight,  but  to-day  the  wind  was  in 
the  south,  and  the  snow  seemed  only  part 
of  a  great  picture. 

"  I  do  hope  the  cold  '11  keep  off  a  while 
longer,"  thought  Mrs.  Dallett.  "I  don't 
know  how  I  'm  going  to  get  along  after  the 
deep  snow  comes." 

The  little  dog  suddenly  waked,  as  if  he 
had  had  a  bad  dream,  and  after  giving  a 
few  anxious  whines  he  began  to  bark  out 
rageously.  His  mistress  tried,  as  usual,  to 
appeal  to  his  better  feelings. 

"  'T  ain't  nobody,  Tiger,"  she  said.  "  Can't 
you  have  some  patience  ?  Maybe  it 's  some 
foolish  boys  that 's  rangin'  about  with  their 
guns."  But  Tiger  kept  on,  and  even  took 
the  trouble  to  waddle  in  on  his  short  legs, 
barking  all  the  way.  He  looked  warningly 
at  her,  and  then  turned  and  ran  out  again. 
Then  she  saw  him  go  hurrying  down  to  the 
bars,  as  if  it  were  an  occasion  of  unusual 
interest. 

"  I  guess  somebody  is  comin' ;  he  don't 
act  as  if  't  were  a  vagrant  kind  o'  noise ; 
must  really  be  somebody  in  our  lane."  And 


178      AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT. 

Mrs.  Dallett  smoothed  her  apron  and  gave 
an  anxious  housekeeper's  glance  round  the 
kitchen.  None  of  her  state  visitors,  the  min 
ister  or  the  deacons,  ever  came  in  the  morn 
ing.  Country  people  are  usually  too  busy 
to  go  visiting  in  the  forenoons. 

Presently  two  figures  appeared  where  the 
road  came  out  of  the  woods,  —  the  two 
women  already  known  to  the  story,  but  very 
surprising  to  Mrs.  Dallett ;  the  short,  thin 
one  was  easily  recognized  as  Abby  Pendex- 
ter,  and  the  taller,  stout  one  was  soon  dis 
covered  to  be  Mrs.  Hand.  Their  old  friend's 
heart  was  in  a  glow.  As  the  guests  ap 
proached  they  could  see  her  pale  face  with 
its  thin  white  hair  framed  under  the  close 
black  silk  handkerchief. 

"There  she  is  at  her  window  smilin' 
away !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hand ;  but  by  the 
time  they  reached  the  doorstep  she  stood 
waiting  to  meet  them. 

"  Why,  you  two  dear  creatur's ! "  she 
said,  with  a  beaming  smile.  "  I  don't  know 
when  I  've  ever  been  so  glad  to  see  folks 
comin'.  I  had  a  kind  of  left-all-alone  feelin' 
this  mornin',  an'  I  did  n't  even  make  bold 
to  be  certain  o'  you,  Abby,  though  it  looked 
so  pleasant.  Come  right  in  an'  set  down. 


AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT.     179 

You  're  all  out  o'  breath,  ain't  you,  Mis' 
Hand?" 

Mrs.  Dallett  led  the  way  with  eager 
hospitality.  She  was  the  tiniest  little  bent 
old  creature,  her  handkerchiefed  head  was 
quick  and  alert,  and  her  eyes  were  bright 
with  excitement  and  feeling,  but  the  rest  of 
her  was  much  the  worse  for  age  ;  she  could 
hardly  move,  poor  soul,  as  if  she  had  only 
a  make-believe  framework  of  a  body  under 
a  shoulder-shawl  and  thick  petticoats.  She 
got  back  to  her  chair  again,  and  the  guests 
took  off  their  bonnets  in  the  bedroom,  and 
returned  discreet  and  sedate  in  their  black 
woolen  dresses.  The  lonely  kitchen  was 
blest  with  society  at  last,  to  its  mistress's 
heart's  content.  They  talked  as  fast  as 
possible  about  the  weather,  and  how  warm 
it  had  been  walking  up  the  mountain,  and 
how  cold  it  had  been  a  year  ago,  that  day 
when  Abby  Pendexter  had  been  kept  at 
home  by  a  snowstorm  and  missed  her  visit. 
"  And  I  ain't  seen  you  now,  aunt,  since 
the  twenty-eighth  of  September,  but  I  've 
thought  of  you  a  great  deal,  and  looked  for 
ward  to  comin'  more  'n  usual,"  she  ended, 
with  an  affectionate  glance  at  the  pleased 
old  face  by  the  window. 


180     AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT. 

"  I  've  been  wantin'  to  see  you,  dear,  and 
wonderin'  how  you  was  gettin'  on,"  said 
Aunt  Cynthy  kindly.  "And  I  take  it  as 
a  great  attention  to  have  you  come  to-day, 
Mis'  Hand,"  she  added,  turning  again  to 
wards  the  more  distinguished  guest.  "  "We 
have  to  put  one  thing  against  another. 
I  should  hate  dreadfully  to  live  anywhere 
except  on  a  high  hill  farm,  'cordin'  as  I  was 
born  an'  raised.  But  there  ain't  the  chance 
to  neighbor  that  townfolks  has,  an'  I  do 
seem  to  have  more  lonely  hours  than  I  used 
to  when  I  was  younger.  I  don't  know  but  I 
shall  soon  be  gittin'  too  old  to  live  alone." 
And  she  turned  to  her  niece  with  an  ex 
pectant,  lovely  look,  and  Abby  smiled  back. 

"  I  often  wish  I  could  run  in  an'  see  you 
every  day,  aunt,"  she  answered.  "  I  have 
been  sayin'  so  to  Mrs.  Hand." 

"  There,  how  anybody  does  relish  com 
pany  when  they  don't  have  but  a  little  of 
it !  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Cynthia.  "  I  am  all 
alone  to-day  ;  there  is  going  to  be  a  shootin'- 
match  somewhere  the  other  side  o'  the  moun 
tain,  an'  Johnny  Foss,  that  does  my  chores, 
begged  off  to  go  when  he  brought  the  milk 
unusual  early  this  mornin'.  Gener'lly  he  's 
about  here  all  the  fore  part  of  the  day ;  but 


AUNT   CYNTHY  DALLETT.  181 

he  don't  go  off  with  the  boys  very  often,  and 
I  like  to  have  him  have  a  little  sport ;  't  was 
New  Year's  Day,  anyway ;  he  's  a  good, 
stiddy  boy  for  my  wants." 

"Why,  I  wish  you  Happy  New  Year, 
aunt ! "  said  Abby,  springing  up  with  un 
usual  spirit.  "Why,  that's  just  what  we 
come  to  say,  and  we  like  to  have  forgot  all 
about  it !  "  She  kissed  her  aunt,  and  stood 
a  minute  holding  her  hand  with  a  soft, 
affectionate  touch.  Mrs.  Hand  rose  and 
kissed  Mrs.  Dallett  too,  and  it  was  a  moment 
of  ceremony  and  deep  feeling. 

"  I  always  like  to  keep  the  day,"  said  the 
old  hostess,  as  they  seated  themselves  and 
drew  their  splint-bottomed  chairs  a  little 
nearer  together  than  before.  "  You  see,  I 
was  brought  up  to  it,  and  father  made  a 
good  deal  of  it ;  he  said  he  liked  to  make 
it  pleasant  and  give  the  year  a  fair  start.  I 
can  see  him  now,  how  he  used  to  be  stand 
ing  there  by  the  fireplace  when  we  came  out 
o'  the  two  bedrooms  early  in  the  morning, 
an'  he  always  made  out,  poor 's  he  was,  to 
give  us  some  little  present,  and  he  'd  heap 
'em  up  on  the  corner  o'  the  mantelpiece, 
an'  we  'd  stand  front  of  him  in  a  row,  and 
mother  be  bustling  about  gettin'  breakfast. 


182      AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT. 

One  year  he  give  me  a  beautiful  copy  o* 
the  '  Life  o'  General  Lafayette,'  in  a  green 
cover,  —  I  've  got  it  now,  but  we  child'n 
'bout  read  it  to  pieces,  —  an'  one  year  a 
nice  piece  o'  blue  ribbon,  an'  Abby  —  that 
was  your  mother,  Abby  —  had  a  pink  one. 
Father  was  real  kind  to  his  child'n.  I 
thought  o'  them  early  days  when  I  first 
waked  up  this  mornin',  and  I  could  n't  help 
lookin'  up  then  to  the  corner  o'  the  shelf 
just  as  I  used  to  look." 

"  There 's  nothin'  so  beautiful  as  to  have 
a  bright  childhood  to  look  back  to,"  said 
Mrs.  Hand.  "  Sometimes  I  think  child'n 
has  too  hard  a  time  now,  —  all  the  responsi 
bility  is  put  on  to  'em,  since  they  take  the 
lead  o'  what  to  do  an'  what  they  want,  and 
get  to  be  so  toppin'  an'  knowin'.  'Twas 
happier  in  the  old  days,  when  the  fathers 
an'  mothers  done  the  rulin'." 

"They  say  things  have  changed,"  said 
Aunt  Cynthy ;  "  but  staying  right  here,  I 
don't  know  much  of  any  world  but  my  own 
world." 

Abby  Pendexter  did  not  join  in  this  con 
versation,  but  sat  in  her  straight  backed 
chair  with  folded  hands  and  the  air  of  a 
>ood  child.  The  little  old  dog  had  followed 


AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT.      183 

her  in,  and  now  lay  sound  asleep  again  at 
her  feet.  The  front  breadth  of  her  black 
dress  looked  rusty  and  old  in  the  sunshine 
that  slanted  across  it,  and  the  aunt's  sharp 
eyes  saw  this  and  saw  the  careful  darns. 
Abby  was  as  neat  as  wax,  but  she  looked  as 
if  the  frost  had  struck  her.  "  I  declare, 
she  's  gittin'  along  in  years,"  thought  Aunt 
Cynthia  compassionately.  "  She  begins  to 
look  sort  o'  set  and  dried  up,  Abby  does. 
She  ought  n't  to  live  all  alone ;  she 's  one 
that  needs  company." 

At  this  moment  Abby  looked  up  with 
new  interest.  "  Now,  aunt,"  she  said,  in  her 
pleasant  voice,  "  I  don't  want  you  to  forget 
to  tell  me  if  there  ain't  some  sewin'  or 
mendin'  I  can  do  whilst  I  'm  here.  I  know 
your  hands  trouble  you  some,  an'  I  may  's 
well  tell  you  we  're  bent  on  stayin'  all  day 
an'  makin'  a  good  visit,  Mis'  Hand  an'  me." 

"  Thank  ye  kindly,"  said  the  old  woman  ; 
"  I  do  want  a  little  sewin'  done  before  long, 
but  't  ain't  no  use  to  spile  a  good  holiday." 
Her  face  took  a  resolved  expression.  "  I  'm 
goin'  to  make  other  arrangements,"  she 
said.  "  No,  you  need  n't  come  up  here  to 
pass  New  Year's  Day  an'  be  put  right  down 
to  sewin'.  I  make  out  to  do  what  mendin' 


184  AUNT   CYNTHY  DALLETT. 

I  need,  an'  to  sew  on  my  hooks  an'  eyes.  I 
get  Johnny  Ross  to  thread  me  up  a  good 
lot  o'  needles  every  little  while,  an'  that 
helps  me  a  good  deal.  Abby,  why  can't 
you  step  into  the  best  room  an'  bring  out 
the  rockin'-chair  ?  I  seem  to  want  Mis' 
Hand  to  have  it." 

"  I  opened  the  window  to  let  the  sun  in 
awhile,"  said  the  niece,  as  she  returned. 
"  It  felt  cool  in  there  an'  shut  up." 

"  I  thought  of  doin'  it  not  long  before  you 
come,"  said  Mrs.  Dallett,  looking  gratified. 
Once  the  taking  of  such  a  liberty  would 
have  been  very  provoking  to  her.  "  Why, 
it  does  seem  good  to  have  somebody  think 
o'  things  an'  take  right  hold  like  that !  " 

"  I  'm  sure  you  would,  if  you  were  down 
at  my  house,"  said  Abby,  blushing.  "  Aunt 
Cynthy,  I  don't  suppose  you  could  feel  as 
if  't  would  be  best  to  come  down  an'  pass 
the  winter  with  me,  —  just  durin'  the  cold 
weather,  I  mean.  You  'd  see  more  folks 
to  amuse  you,  an'  —  I  do  think  of  you  so 
anxious  these  long  winter  nights." 

There  was  a  terrible  silence  in  the  room, 
and  Miss  Pendexter  felt  her  heart  begin  to 
beat  very  fast.  She  did  not  dare  to  look  at 
her  aunt  at  first. 


AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT.     185 

Presently  the  silence  was  broken.  Aunt 
Cynthia  had  been  gazing  out  of  the  win 
dow,  and  she  turned  towards  them  a  little 
paler  and  older  than  before,  and  smiling 
sadly. 

"  Well,  dear,  I  '11  do  just  as  you  say,"  she 
answered.  "  I  'm  beat  by  age  at  last,  but 
I  Ve  had  my  own  way  for  eighty-five  years, 
come  the  month  o'  March,  an'  last  winter  I 
did  use  to  lay  awake  an'  worry  in  the  long 
storms.  I'm  kind  o'  humble  now  about 
livin'  alone  to  what  I  was  once."  At  this 
moment  a  new  light  shone  in  her  face.  "  I 
don't  expect  you  'd  be  willin'  to  come  up 
here  an'  stay  till  spring,  —  not  if  I  had 
Foss's  folks  stop  for  you  to  ride  to  meetin' 
every  pleasant  Sunday,  an'  take  you  down  to 
the  Corners  plenty  o'  other  times  besides?" 
she  said  beseechingly.  "  No,  Abby,  I  'm 
too  old  to  move  now  ;  I  should  be  homesick 
down  to  the  village.  If  you  '11  come  an' 
stay  with  me,  all  I  have  shall  be  yours. 
Mis'  Hand  hears  me  say  it." 

"  Oh,  don't  you  think  o'  that ;  you  're  all 
I  've  got  near  to  me  in  the  world,  an'  I  '11 
come  an'  welcome,"  said  Abby,  though  the 
thought  of  her  own  little  home  gave  a  hard 
tug  at  her  heart.  "  Yes,  Aunt  Cynthy,  I  '11 


186     AUNT  CYNTHT  DALLETT. 

come,  an'  we  '11  be  real  comfortable  together. 
I  've  been  lonesome  sometimes  "  — 

"'Twill  be  best  for  both,"  said  Mrs. 
Hand  judicially.  And  so  the  great  ques 
tion  was  settled,  and  suddenly,  without  too 
much  excitement,  it  became  a  thing  of  the 
past. 

"  We  must  be  thinkin'  o'  dinner,"  said 
Aunt  Cynthia  gayly.  "  I  wish  I  was  better 
prepared ;  but  there  's  nice  eggs  an'  pork 
an'  potatoes,  an'  you  girls  can  take  hold  an' 
help."  At  this  moment  the  roast  chicken 
and  the  best  mince  pies  were  offered  and 
kindly  accepted,  and  before  another  hour 
had  gone  they  were  sitting  at  their  New 
Year  feast,  which  Mrs.  Dallett  decided  to 
be  quite  proper  for  the  Queen. 

Before  the  guests  departed,  when  the  sun 
was  getting  low,  Aunt  Cynthia  called  her 
niece  to  her  side  and  took  hold  of  her  hand. 

"  Don't  you  make  it  too  long  now,  Abby," 
said  she.  "  I  shall  be  wantin'  ye  every  day 
till  you  come ;  but  you  must  n't  f  orgit  what 
a  set  old  thing  I  be." 

Abby  had  the  kindest  of  hearts,  and  was 
always  longing  for  somebody  to  love  and 
care  for  ;  her  aunt's  very  age  and  helpless 
ness  seemed  to  beg  for  pity. 


AUNT  CYNTHY  DALLETT.     187 

"  This  is  Saturday  ;  you  may  expect  me  the 
early  part  of  the  week ;  and  thank  you,  too, 
aunt,"  said  Abby. 

Mrs.  Hand  stood  by  with  deep  sympathy. 
"  It 's  the  proper  thing,"  she  announced 
calmly.  "  You  'd  both  of  you  be  a  sight 
happier ;  and  truth  is,  Abby 's  wild  an' 
reckless,  an'  needs  somebody  to  stand  right 
over  her,  Mis'  Dallett.  I  guess  she  '11  try  an' 
behave,  but  there  —  there  's  no  knowin' !  " 
And  they  all  laughed.  Then  the  New  Year 
guests  said  farewell  and  started  off  down 
the  mountain  road.  They  looked  back  more 
than  once  to  see  Aunt  Cynthia's  face  at  the 
window  as  she  watched  them  out  of  sight. 
Miss  Abby  Pendexter  was  full  of  excite 
ment  ;  she  looked  as  happy  as  a  child. 

"  I  feel  as  if  we  'd  gained  the  battle  of 
Waterloo,"  said  Mrs.  Hand.  "  I  've  really 
had  a  most  beautiful  time.  You  an'  your 
aunt  must  n't  forgit  to  invite  me  up  some 
time  again  to  spend  another  day." 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THANKS 
GIVING. 

I. 

THERE  was  a  sad  heart  in  the  low-storied, 
dark  little  house  that  stood  humbly  by  the 
roadside  under  some  tall  elms.  Small  as  her 
house  was,  old  Mrs.  Robb  found  it  too  large 
for  herself  alone  ;  she  only  needed  the  kitchen 
and  a  tiny  bedroom  that  led  out  of  it,  and 
there  still  remained  the  best  room  and  a 
bedroom,  with  the  low  garret  overhead. 

There  had  been  a  time,  after  she  was  left 
alone,  when  Mrs.  Robb  could  help  those 
who  were  poorer  than  herself.  She  was 
strong  enough  not  only  to  do  a  woman's 
work  inside  her  house,  but  almost  a  man's 
work  outside  in  her  piece  of  garden  ground. 
At  last  sickness  and  age  had  come  hand  in 
hand,  those  two  relentless  enemies  of  the 
poor,  and  together  they  had  wasted  her 
strength  and  substance.  She  had  always 
been  looked  up  to  by  her  neighbors  as  being 
independent,  but  now  she  was  left,  lame- 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE   THANKSGIVING.     189 

footed  and  lame-handed,  with  a  debt  to  carry 
and  her  bare  land,  and  the  house  ill-provi 
sioned  to  stand  the  siege  of  time. 

For  a  while  she  managed  to  get  on,  but  at 
last  it  began  to  be  whispered  about  that  there 
was  no  use  for  any  one  so  proud ;  it  was 
easier  for  the  whole  town  to  care  for  her  than 
for  a  few  neighbors,  and  Mrs.  Robb  had  bet 
ter  go  to  the  poorhouse  before  winter,  and 
be  done  with  it.  At  this  terrible  suggestion 
her  brave  heart  seemed  to  stand  still.  The 
people  whom  she  cared  for  most  happened 
to  be  poor,  and  she  could  no  longer  go  into 
their  households  to  make  herself  of  use. 
The  very  elms  overhead  seemed  to  say,  "  Oh, 
no !  "  as  they  groaned  in  the  late  autumn 
winds,  and  there  was  something  appealing 
even  to  the  strange  passer-by  in  the  look  of 
the  little  gray  house,  with  Mrs.  Robb's  pale, 
worried  face  at  the  window. 


.  II. 

Some  one  has  said  that  anniversaries  are 
days  to  make  other  people  happy  in,  but 
sometimes  when  they  come  they  seem  to  be 
full  of  shadows,  and  the  power  of  giving 
joy  to  others,  that  inalienable  right  which 


190     THE  NIGHT  BEFORE    THANKSGIVING. 

ought  to  lighten  the  saddest  heart,  the  most 
indifferent  sympathy,  sometimes  even  this 
seems  to  be  withdrawn. 

So  poor  old  Mary  Ann  Robb  sat  at  her 
window  on  the  afternoon  before  Thanks 
giving  and  felt  herself  poor  and  sorrowful 
indeed.  Across  the  frozen  road  she  looked 
eastward  over  a  great  stretch  of  cold  meadow 
land,  brown  and  wind-swept  and  crossed  by 
icy  ditches.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  before 
this,  in  all  the  troubles  that  she  had  known 
and  carried,  there  had  always  been  some 
hope  to  hold :  as  if  she  had  never  looked 
poverty  full  in  the  face  and  seen  its  cold  and 
pitiless  look  before.  She  looked  anxiously 
down  the  road,  with  a  horrible  shrinking  and 
dread  at  the  thought  of  being  asked,  out 
of  pity,  to  join  in  some  Thanksgiving  feast, 
but  there  was  nobody  coming  with  gifts  in 
hand.  Once  she  had  been  full  of  love  for 
such  days,  whether  at  home  or  abroad,  but 
something  chilled  her  very  heart  now. 

Her  nearest  neighbor  had  been  foremost 
of  those  who  wished  her  to  go  to  the  town 
farm,  and  he  had  said  more  than  once  that 
it  was  the  only  sensible  thing.  But  John 
Mander  was  waiting  impatiently  to  get  her 
tiny  farm  into  his  own  hands ;  he  had  ad- 


THE   NIGHT  BEFORE   THANKSGIVING.     191 

vanced  some  money  upon  it  in  her  extrem 
ity,  and  pretended  that  there  was  still  a  debt, 
after  he  cleared  her  wood  lot  to  pay  himself 
back.  He  would  plough  over  the  graves  in 
the  field  corner  and  fell  the  great  elms,  and 
waited  now  like  a  spider  for  his  poor  prey. 
He  often  reproached  her  for  being  too 
generous  to  worthless  people  in  the  past 
and  coming  to  be  a  charge  to  others  now. 
Oh,  if  she  could  only  die  in  her  own  house 
and  not  suffer  the  pain  of  homelessness  and 
dependence ! 

It  was  just  at  sunset,  and  as  she  looked 
out  hopelessly  across  the  gray  fields,  there 
was  a  sudden  gleam  of  light  far  away  on 
the  low  hills  beyond ;  the  clouds  opened  in 
the  west  and  let  the  sunshine  through.  One 
lovely  gleam  shot  swift  as  an  arrow  and 
brightened  a  far  cold  hillside  where  it  fell, 
and  at  the  same  moment  a  sudden  gleam  of 
hope  brightened  the  winter  landscape  of  her 
heart. 

"  There  was  Johnny  Harris,"  said  Mary 
Ann  Robb  softly.  "  He  was  a  soldier's  son, 
left  an  orphan  and  distressed.  Old  John 
Mander  scolded,  but  I  could  n't  see  the  poor 
boy  in  want.  I  kept  him  that  year  after 
he  got  hurt,  spite  o'  what  anybody  said,  an* 


192  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THANKSGIVING. 

he  helped  me  what  little  he  could.  He  said 
I  was  the  only  mother  he  'd  ever  had.  '  I  'm 
goin'  out  West,  Mother  Robb,'  says  he.  *  I 
sha'n't  come  back  till  I  get  rich,'  an'  then 
he  'd  look  at  me  an'  laugh,  so  pleasant  and 
boyish.  He  wa'n't  one  that  liked  to  write. 
I  don't  think  he  was  doin'  very  well  when 
I  heard,  —  there,  it 's  most  four  years  ago 
now.  I  always  thought  if  he  got  sick  or 
anything,  I  should  have  a  good  home  for 
him  to  come  to.  There  's  poor  Ezra  Blake, 
the  deaf  one,  too,  —  he  won't  have  any  place 
to  welcome  him." 

The  light  faded  out  of  doors,  and  again 
Mrs.  Robb's  troubles  stood  before  her.  Yet 
it  was  not  so  dark  as  it  had  been  in  her  sad 
heart.  She  still  sat  by  the  window,  hoping 
now,  in  spite  of  herself,  instead  of  fearing ; 
and  a  curious  feeling  of  nearness  and  ex 
pectancy  made  her  feel  not  so  much  light- 
hearted  as  light-headed. 

"  I  feel  just  as  if  somethin'  was  goin'  to 
happen,"  she  said.  "  Poor  Johnny  Harris, 
perhaps  he 's  thinkin'  o'  me,  if  he 's  alive." 

It  was  dark  now  out  of  doors,  and  there 
were  tiny  clicks  against  the  window.  It 
was  beginning  to  snow,  and  the  great  elms 
creaked  in  the  rising  wind  overhead. 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE    THANKSGIVING.     193 

III. 

A  dead  limb  of  one  of  the  old  trees  had 
fallen  that  autumn,  and,  poor  firewood  as  it 
might  be,  it  was  Mrs.  Robb's  own,  and  she 
had  burnt  it  most  thankfully.  There  was 
only  a  small  armful  left,  but  at  least  she 
could  have  the  luxury  of  a  fire.  She  had  a 
feeling  that  it  was  her  last  night  at  home, 
and  with  strange  recklessness  began  to  fill 
the  stove  as  she  used  to  do  in  better  days. 

"  It  '11  get  me  good  an'  warm,"  she  said, 
still  talking  to  herself,  as  lonely  people  do, 
"  an'  I  '11  go  to  bed  early.  It 's  comin'  on 
to  storm." 

The  snow  clicked  faster  and  faster  against 
the  window,  and  she  sat  alone  thinking  in 
the  dark. 

"  There  's  lots  of  folks  I  love,"  she  said 
once.  "  They  'd  be  sorry  I  ain't  got  no 
body  to  come,  an'  no  supper  the  night  afore 
Thanksgivin'.  I  'm  dreadful  glad  they  don't 
know."  And  she  drew  a  little  nearer  to  the 
fire,  and  laid  her  head  back  drowsily  in  the 
old  rocking-chair. 

It  seemed  only  a  moment  before  there  was 
a  loud  knocking,  and  somebody  lifted  the 
latch  of  the  door.  The  fire  shone  bright 


194     THE   NIGHT  BEFORE    THANKSGIVING. 

through  the  front  of  the  stove  and  made  a 
little  light  in  the  room,  but  Mary  Ann  Robb 
waked  up  frightened  and  bewildered. 

"  Who  's  there  ?  "  she  called,  as  she  found 
her  crutch  and  went  to  the  door.  She 
was  only  conscious  of  her  one  great  fear. 
"  They  've  come  to  take  me  to  the  poor- 
house!"  she  said,  and  burst  into  tears. 

There  was  a  tall  man,  not  John  Mander, 
who  seemed  to  fill  the  narrow  doorway. 

"  Come,  let  me  in  !  "  he  said  gayly.  "  It 's 
a  cold  night.  You  did  n't  expect  me,  did 
you,  Mother  Robb  ?  " 

"Dear  me,  what  is  it?"  she  faltered, 
stepping  back  as  he  came  in,  and  drop 
ping  her  crutch.  "  Be  I  dreamin'  ?  I  was 
a-dreamin'  about  —  Oh,  there !  What 
was  I  a-sayin'  ?  'T  ain't  true  !  No  !  I  've 
made  some  kind  of  a  mistake." 

Yes,  and  this  was  the  man  who  kept  the 
poorhouse,  and  she  would  go  without  com 
plaint  ;  they  might  have  given  her  notice,  but 
she  must  not  fret. 

"  Sit  down,  sir,"  she  said,  turning  toward 
him  with  touching  patience.  "  You  '11  have 
to  give  me  a  little  time.  If  I  'd  been  noti 
fied  I  would  n't  have  kept  you  waiting  a 
minute  this  stormy  night." 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE    THANKSGIVING.     195 

It  was  not  the  keeper  of  the  poorhouse. 
The  man  by  the  door  took  one  step  forward 
and  put  his  arm  round  her  and  kissed  her. 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  said  John 
Harris.  "  You  ain't  goin'  to  make  me  feel 
like  a  stranger  ?  I  've  come  all  the  way 
from  Dakota  to  spend  Thanksgivin'.  There 's 
all  sorts  o'  things  out  here  in  the  wagon,  an' 
a  man  to  help  get  'em  in.  Why,  don't  cry 
so,  Mother  Robb.  I  thought  you  'd  have  a 
great  laugh,  if  I  come  and  surprised  you. 
Don't  you  remember  I  always  said  I  should 
come  ?  " 

It  was  John  Harris,  indeed.  The  poor 
soul  could  say  nothing.  She  felt  now  as  if 
her  heart  was  going  to  break  with  joy.  He 
left  her  in  the  rocking-chair  and  came  and 
went  in  his  old  boyish  way,  bringing  in  the 
store  of  gifts  and  provisions.  It  was  better 
than  any  dream.  He  laughed  and  talked, 
and  went  out  to  send  away  the  man  to  bring 
a  wagonful  of  wood  from  John  Mander's, 
and  came  in  himself  laden  with  pieces  of 
the  nearest  fence  to  keep  the  fire  going  in 
the  mean  time.  They  must  cook  the  beef 
steak  for  supper  right  away ;  they  must  find 
the  pound  of  tea  among  all  the  other  bun 
dles;  they  must  get  good  fires  started  i» 


196     TEE  NIGHT  BEFORE   THANKSGIVING. 

both  the  cold  bedrooms.  Why,  Mother  Robb 
did  n't  seem  to  be  ready  for  company  from 
out  West !  The  great,  cheerful  fellow  hur 
ried  about  the  tiny  house,  and  the  little  old 
woman  limped  after  him,  forgetting  every 
thing  but  hospitality.  Had  not  she  a  house 
for  John  to  come  to  ?  Were  not  her  old 
chairs  and  tables  in  their  places  still  ?  And 
he  remembered  everything,  and  kissed  her 
as  they  stood  before  the  fire,  as  if  she  were 
a  girl. 

He  had  found  plenty  of  hard  times,  but 
luck  had  come  at  last.  He  had  struck  luck, 
and  this  was  the  end  of  a  great  year. 

"  No,  I  could  n't  seem  to  write  letters ;  no 
use  to  complain  o'  the  worst,  an'  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  the  best  when  I  came ; "  and  he 
told  it  while  she  cooked  the  supper.  "  No,  I 
wa'n't  goin'  to  write  no  foolish  letters,"  John 
repeated.  He  was  afraid  he  should  cry  him 
self  when  he  found  out  how  bad  things  had 
been ;  and  they  sat  down  to  supper  together, 
just  as  they  used  to  do  when  he  was  a  home 
less  orphan  boy,  whom  nobody  else  wanted 
in  winter  weather  while  he  was  crippled  and 
could  not  work.  She  could  not  be  kinder 
now  than  she  was  then,  but  she  looked  so 
poor  and  old  !  He  saw  her  taste  her  cup  of 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE   THANKSGIVING.     197 

tea  and  set  it  down  again  with  a  trembling 
hand  and  a  look  at  him.  "  No,  I  wanted  to 
come  myself,"  he  blustered,  wiping  his  eyes 
and  trying  to  laugh.  "  And  you  're  going 
to  have  everything  you  need  to  make  you 
comfortable  long 's  you  live,  Mother  Robb !  " 
She  looked  at  him  again  and  nodded,  but 
she  did  not  even  try  to  speak.  There  was 
a  good  hot  supper  ready,  and  a  happy  guest 
had  come ;  it  was  the  night  before  Thanks 
giving. 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

ON  the  coast  of  Maine,  where  many  green 
islands  and  salt  inlets  fringe  the  deep-cut 
shore  line  ;  where  balsam  firs  and  bayberry 
bushes  send  their  fragrance  far  seaward,  and 
song-sparrows  sing  all  day,  and  the  tide  runs 
plashing  in  and  out  among  the  weedy  ledges ; 
where  cowbells  tinkle  on  the  hills  and  her 
ons  stand  in  the  shady  coves,  —  on  the 
lonely  coast  of  Maine  stood  a  small  gray 
house  facing  the  morning  light.  All  the 
weather-beaten  houses  of  that  region  face 
the  sea  apprehensively,  like  the  women  who 
live  in  them. 

This  home  of  four  people  was  as  bleached 
and  gray  with  wind  and  rain  as  one  of  the 
pasture  rocks  close  by.  There  were  some 
cinnamon  rose  bushes  under  the  window  at 
one  side  of  the  door,  and  a  stunted  lilac  at 
the  other  side.  It  was  so  early  in  the  cool 
morning  that  nobody  was  astir  but  some  shy 
birds,  that  had  come  in  the  stillness  of 
dawn  to  pick  and  flutter  in  the  short  grass. 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  199 

They  flew  away  together  as  some  one  softly 
opened  the  unlocked  door  and  stepped  out. 
This  was  a  bent  old  man,  who  shaded  his 
eyes  with  his  hand,  and  looked  at  the  west 
and  the  east  and  overhead,  and  then  took  a 
few  lame  and  feeble  steps  farther  out  to  see 
a  wooden  vane  on  the  barn.  Then  he  sat 
down  on  the  doorstep,  clasped  his  hands  to 
gether  between  his  knees,  and  looked  stead 
ily  out  to  sea,  scanning  the  horizon  where 
some  schooners  had  held  on  their  course  all 
night,  with  a  light  westerly  breeze.  He 
seemed  to  be  satisfied  at  sight  of  the  weather, 
as  if  he  had  been  anxious,  as  he  lay  unas 
sured  in  his  north  bedroom,  vexed  with  the 
sleeplessness  of  age  and  excited  by  thoughts 
of  the  coming  day.  The  old  seaman  dozed 
as  he  sat  on  the  doorstep,  while  dawn  came 
up  and  the  world  grew  bright ;  and  the  little 
birds  returned,  fearfully  at  first,  to  finish 
their  breakfast,  and  at  last  made  bold  to  hop 
close  to  his  feet. 

After  a  time  some  one  else  came  and  stood 
in  the  open  door  behind  him. 

"  Why,  father  !  seems  to  me  you  've  got 
an  early  start ;  't  ain't  but  four  o'clock.  I 
thought  I  was  foolish  to  get  up  so  soon,  but 
't  wa'n't  so  I  could  sleep." 


200  £7  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

"  No,  darter."  The  old  man  smiled  as  lie 
turned  to  look  at  her,  wide  awake  on  the  in 
stant.  "  'T  ain't  so  soon  as  I  git  out  some 
o'  these  'arly  mornin's.  The  birds  wake  me 
up  singin',  and  it 's  plenty  light,  you  know. 
I  wanted  to  make  sure  'Lisha  would  have  a 
fair  day  to  go." 

"  I  expect  he  'd  have  to  go  if  the  weather 
wa'n't  good,"  said  the  woman. 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  't  is  useful  to  have  fair 
weather,  an'  a  good  sign  some  says  it  is. 
This  is  a  great  event  for  the  boy,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  I  can't  face  the  thought  o'  losin'  on  him, 
father."  The  woman  came  forward  a  step 
or  two  and  sat  down  on  the  doorstep.  She 
was  a  hard-worked,  anxious  creature,  whose 
face  had  lost  all  look  of  youth.  She  was 
apt,  in  the  general  course  of  things,  to  hurry 
the  old  man  and  to  spare  little  time  for  talk 
ing,  and  he  was  pleased  by  this  acknow 
ledged  unity  of  their  interests.  He  moved 
aside  a  little  to  give  her  more  room,  and 
glanced  at  her  with  a  smile,  as  if  to  beg  her 
to  speak  freely.  They  were  both  undemon 
strative,  taciturn  New  Englanders ;  their 
hearts  were  warm  with  pent-up  feeling,  that 
summer  morning,  yet  it  was  easier  to  under 
stand  one  another  through  silence  than 
through  speech. 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  201 

"  No,  I  could  n't  git  much  sleep,"  repeated 
the  daughter  at  last.  "Some  things  I 
thought  of  that  ain't  come  to  mind  before 
for  years,  —  things  I  don't  relish  the  f  eelin' 
of,  all  over  again." 

"  'T  was  just  such  a  mornin'  as  this,  pore 
little  'Lisha's  father  went  off  on  that  last 
v'y'ge  o'  his,"  answered  the  old  sailor,  with 
instant  comprehension.  "  Yes,  you  've  had 
it  master  hard,  pore  gal,  ain't  you  ?  I  ad 
vised  him  against  goin'  off  on  that  old  ves 
sel  with  a  crew  that  wa'n't  capable." 

"  Such  a  mornin'  as  this,  when  I  come 
out  at  sun-up,  I  always  seem  to  see  her  top- 
s'ils  over  there  beyond  the  p'int,  where  she 
was  to  anchor.  Well,  I  thank  Heaven 
'Lisha  was  averse  to  goin'  to  sea,"  declared 
the  mother. 

"  There  's  dangers  ashore,  Lucy  Ann," 
said  the  grandfather,  solemnly ;  but  there 
was  no  answer,  and  they  sat  there  in  silence 
until  the  old  man  grew  drowsy  again. 

"  Yisterday  was  the  first  time  it  fell  onto 
my  heart  that  'Lisha  was  goin'  off,"  the  mo 
ther  began  again,  after  a  time  had  passed. 
"  P'r'aps  folks  was  right  about  our  needing 
of  him.  I  've  been  workin'  every  way  I 
could  to  further  him  and  git  him  a  real  good 


202  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

chance  up  to  Boston,  and  now  that  we  've 
got  to  part  with  him  I  don't  see  how  to  put 
up  with  it." 

"  All  nateral,"  insisted  the  old  man.  "  My 
mother  wept  the  night  through  before  I  was 
goin'  to  sail  on  my  first  v'y'ge  ;  she  was  kind 
of  satisfied,  though,  when  I  come  home  next 
summer,  grown  a  full  man,  with  my  savin's 
in  my  pocket,  an'  I  had  a  master  pretty 
little  figured  shawl  I  'd  bought  for  her  to 
Bristol." 

"  I  don't  want  no  shawls.  Partin'  is  part- 
in'  to  me,"  said  the  woman. 

"  'T  ain't  everybody  can  stand  in  her  fore- 
door  an'  see  the  chimbleys  o'  three  child'n's 
houses  without  a  glass,"  he  tried  eagerly  to 
console  her.  "  All  ready  an'  willin'  to  do 
their  part  for  you,  so  as  you  could  let  'Lisha 
go  off  and  have  his  chance." 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  she  answered, 
"  but  none  on  'em  never  give  me  the  rooted 
home  feelin'  that  'Lisha  has.  They  was 
more  varyin'  and  kind  o'  fast  growin'  and 
scatterin' ;  but  'Lisha  was  always  'Lisha 
when  he  was  a  babe,  and  I  settled  on  him 
for  the  one  to  keep  with  me." 

"  Then  he  's  just  the  kind  to  send  off,  one 
you  ain't  got  to  worry  about.  They  're  all 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT:  203 

good  child'n,"  said  the  man.  "  "We  Ve  rea 
son  to  be  thankful  none  on  'em  's  been  like 
some  young  sprigs,  more  grief  'n  glory  to 
their  folks.  An'  I  ain't  regrettin'  'Lisha's 
goin'  one  mite ;  I  believe  you  'd  rather  go 
on  doin'  for  him  an'  cossetin'.  I  think  't  was 
high  time  to  shove  him  out  o'  the  nest." 

"  You  ain't  his  mother,"  said  Lucy  Ann. 

"  What  be  you  goin'  to  give  him  for  his 
breakfast  ?  "  asked  the  stern  grandfather,  in 
a  softened,  less  business-like  voice. 

"  I  don't  know  's  I  'd  thought  about  it, 
special,  sir.  I  did  lay  aside  that  piece  o' 
apple  pie  we  had  left  yisterday  from  dinner," 
she  confessed. 

"  Fry  him  out  a  nice  little  crisp  piece  o' 
pork,  Lucy  Ann,  an'  't  will  relish  with  his 
baked  potatoes.  He  '11  think  o'  his  break 
fast  more  times  'n  you  expect.  I  know  a 
lad's  feelin's  when  home  's  put  behind  him." 

The  sun  was  up  clear  and  bright  over  the 
broad  sea  inlet  to  the  eastward,  but  the  shin 
ing  water  struck  the  eye  by  its  look  of  va 
cancy.  It  was  broad  daylight,  and  still  so 
early  that  no  sails  came  stealing  out  from  the 
farmhouse  landings,  or  even  from  the  gray 
groups  of  battered  fish-houses  that  overhung, 
here  and  there,  a  sheltered  cove.  Some 


204  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

crows  and  gulls  were  busy  in  the  air  ;  it  was 
the  time  of  day  when  the  world  belongs  more 
to  birds  than  to  men. 

"  Poor  'Lisha  !  "  the  mother  went  on  com 
passionately.  "  I  expect  it  has  been  a  long 
night  to  him.  He  seemed  to  take  it  in,  as 
he  was  goin'  to  bed,  how  't  was  his  last  night 
to  home.  I  heard  him  thrashin'  about  kind 
o'  restless,  sometimes." 

"  Come,  Lucy  Ann,  the  boy  ought  to  be 
stirrin' !  "  exclaimed  the  old  sailor,  without 
the  least  show  of  sympathy.  "  He  's  got  to 
be  ready  when  John  Sykes  comes,  an'  he 
ain't  so  quick  as  some  lads." 

The  mother  rose  with  a  sigh,  and  went 
into  the  house.  After  her  own  sleepless 
night,  she  dreaded  to  face  the  regretful, 
sleepless  eyes  of  her  son  ;  but  as  she  opened 
the  door  of  his  little  bedroom,  there  lay 
Elisha  sound  asleep  and  comfortable  to  be 
hold.  She  stood  watching  him  with  gloomy 
tenderness  until  he  stirred  uneasily,  his  con 
sciousness  roused  by  the  intentness  of  her 
thought,  and  the  mysterious  current  that 
flowed  from  her  wistful,  eager  eyes. 

But  when  the  lad  waked,  it  was  to  a  joy 
ful  sense  of  manliness  and  responsibility; 
for  him  the  change  of  surroundings  was  com- 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  205 

ing  through  natural  processes  of  growth,  not 
through  the  uprooting  which  gave  his  mo 
ther  such  an  aching  heart. 

A  little  later  Elisha  came  out  to  the 
breakfast-table,  arrayed  in  his  best  sandy- 
brown  clothes  set  off  with  a  bright  blue  satin 
cravat,  which  had  been  the  pride  and  delight 
of  pleasant  Sundays  and  rare  holidays.  He 
already  felt  unrelated  to  the  familiar  scene 
of  things,  and  was  impatient  to  be  gone. 
For  one  thing,  it  was  strange  to  sit  down  to 
breakfast  in  Sunday  splendor,  while  his  mo 
ther  and  grandfather  and  little  sister  Lydia 
were  in  their  humble  every-day  attire.  They 
ate  in  silence  and  haste,  as  they  always  did, 
but  with  a  new  constraint  and  awkwardness 
that  forbade  their  looking  at  one  another. 
At  last  the  head  of  the  household  broke  the 
silence  with  simple  straightforwardness. 

"  You  've  got  an  excellent  good  day, 
'Lisha.  I  like  to  have  a  fair  start  myself. 
'T  ain't  goin'  to  be  too  hot ;  the  wind  's 
working  into  the  north  a  little." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  responded  Elisha. 

"  The  great  p'int  about  gittin'  on  in  life 
is  beiu'  able  to  cope  with  your  headwinds," 
continued  the  old  man  earnestly,  pushing 
away  his  plate.  "  Any  fool  can  run  before 


206  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

a  fair  breeze,  but  I  tell  ye  a  good  seaman  is 
one  that  gits  the  best  out  o'  his  disadvan 
tages.  You  won't  be  treated  so  pretty  as 
you  expect  in  the  store,  and  you  '11  git 
plenty  o'  blows  to  your  pride ;  but  you  keep 
right  ahead,  and  if  you  can't  run  before  the 
wind  you  can  always  beat.  I  ain't  no  hand 
to  preach,  but  preachin'  ain't  goin'  to  sarve 
ye  now.  We  've  gone  an'  fetched  ye  up  the 
best  we  could,  your  mother  an'  me,  an'  you 
can't  never  say  but  you  've  started  amongst 
honest  folks.  If  a  vessel 's  built  out  o'  sound 
timber  an'  has  got  good  lines  for  sailin',  why 
then  she  's  seaworthy ;  but  if  she  ain't,  she 
ain't ;  an'  a  mess  o'  preachin'  ain't  goin'  to 
alter  her  over.  Now  you  're  standin'  out  to 
sea,  my  boy,  an'  you  can  bear  your  home  in 
mind  and  work  your  way,  same  's  plenty  of 
others  has  done." 

It  was  a  solemn  moment ;  the  speaker's 
voice  faltered,  and  little  Lydia  dried  her 
tearful  blue  eyes  with  her  gingham  apron. 
Elisha  hung  his  head,  and  patted  the  old 
spotted  cat  which  came  to  rub  herself  against 
his  trowsers-leg.  The  -mother  rose  hastily, 
and  hurried  into  the  pantry  close  by.  She 
was  always  an  appealing  figure,  with  her 
thin  shoulders  and  faded  calico  gowns ;  it 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  207 

was  difficult  to  believe  that  she  had  once 
been  the  prettiest  girl  in  that  neighborhood. 
But  her  son  loved  her  in  his  sober,  undemon 
strative  way,  and  was  full  of  plans  for  com 
ing  home,  rich  and  generous  enough  to  make 
her  proud  and  happy.  He  was  half  pleased 
and  half  annoyed  because  his  leave-taking 
was  of  such  deep  concern  to  the  household. 

"  Come,  Lyddy,  don't  you  take  on,"  he 
said,  with  rough  kindliness.  "  Let 's  go  out, 
and  I  '11  show  you  how  to  feed  the  pig  and 
'tend  to  the  chickens.  You  '11  have  to  be 
chief  clerk  when  I  'm  gone." 

They  went  out  to  the  yard,  hand  in  hand. 
Elisha  stopped  to  stroke  the  old  cat  again, 
as  she  ran  by  his  side  and  mewed.  "  I  wish 
I  was  off  and  done  with  it ;  this  morning 
does  seem  awful  long,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Ain't  you  afraid  you  '11  be  homesick 
an'  want  to  come  back  ?  "  asked  the  little 
sister  timidly;  but  Elisha  scorned  so  poor 
a  thought. 

"  You  '11  have  to  see  if  grandpa  has  'tended 
to  these  things,  the  pig  an'  the  chickens,"  he 
advised  her  gravely.  "  He  forgets  'em  some 
times  when  I  'm  away,  but  he  would  be  cast 
down  if  you  told  him  so,  and  you  just  keep 
an  eye  open,  Lyddy.  Mother 's  got  enough 


208  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

to  do  inside  the  house.  But  grandsir  '11 
keep  her  in  kindlin's ;  he  likes  to  set  and 
chop  in  the  shed  rainy  days,  an'  he  '11  do  a 
sight  more  if  you  '11  set  with  him,  an'  let 
him  get  goin'  on  his  old  seafarin'  times." 

Lydia  nodded  discreetly. 

"  An',  Lyddy,  don't  you  loiter  comin' 
home  from  school,  an'  don't  play  out  late,  an' 
get  'em  fussy,  when  it  comes  cold  weather. 
And  you  tell  Susy  Draper,"  —  the  boy's 
voice  sounded  unconcerned,  but  Lydia 
glanced  at  him  quickly,  —  "  you  tell  Susy 
Draper  that  I  was  awful  sorry  she  was  over 
to  her  aunt's,  so  I  could  n't  say  good-by." 

Lydia's  heart  was  the  heart  of  a  wo 
man,  and  she  comprehended.  Lydia  nodded 
again,  more  sagely  than  before. 

"  See  here,"  said  the  boy  suddenly.  "  I  'm 
goin'  to  let  my  old  woodchuck  out." 

Lydia's  face  was  blank  with  surprise.  "  I 
thought  you  promised  to  sell  him  to  big  Jim 
Hooper." 

"  I  did,  but  I  don't  care  for  big  Jim 
Hooper ;  you  just  tell  him  I  let  my  wood- 
chuck  go." 

The  brother  and  sister  went  to  their  fa 
vorite  playground  between  the  ledges,  not 
far  from  the  small  old  barn.  Here  was  a 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  209 

clumsy  box  with  wire  gratings,  behind  which 
an  untamed  little  wild  beast  sat  up  and  chit- 
tered  at  his  harmless  foes.  "  He  's  a  whop 
ping  old  fellow,"  said  Elisha  admiringly. 
"  Big  Jim  Hooper  sha'n't  have  him  !  "  and 
as  he  opened  the  trap,  Lydia  had  hardly  time 
to  perch  herself  high  on  the  ledge,  before 
the  woodchuck  tumbled  and  scuttled  along 
the  short  green  turf,  and  was  lost  among  the 
clumps  of  juniper  and  bay  berry  just  beyond. 

"  I  feel  just  like  him,"  said  the.  boy.  "  I 
want  to  get  up  to  Boston  just  as  bad  as  that. 
See  here,  now !  "  and  he  flung  a  gallant  cart 
wheel  of  himself  in  the  same  direction,  and 
then  stood  on  his  head  and  waved  his  legs 
furiously  in  the  air.  "  I  feel  just  like  that." 

Lydia,  who  had  been  tearful  all  the  morn 
ing,  looked  at  him  in  vague  dismay.  Only  a 
short  time  ago  she  had  never  been  made  to 
feel  that  her  brother  was  so  much  older  than 
herself.  They  had  been  constant  playmates ; 
but  now  he  was  like  a  grown  man,  and  cared 
no  longer  for  their  old  pleasures.  There 
was  all  possible  difference  between  them 
that  there  can  be  between  fifteen  years  and 
twelve,  and  Lydia  was  nothing  but  a  child. 

"  Come,  come,  where  be  ye  ?  "  shouted  the 
old  grandfather,  and  they  both  started  guilt- 


210  BY  TEE    MOANING  BOAT. 

ily.  Elisha  rubbed  some  dry  grass  out  of 
his  short-cropped  hair,  and  the  little  sister 
came  down  from  her  ledge.  At  that  mo 
ment  the  real  pang  of  parting  shot  through 
her  heart ;  her  brother  belonged  irrevocably 
to  a  wider  world. 

"  Ma'am  Stover  has  sent  for  ye  to  come 
over ;  she  wants  to  say  good-by  to  ye !  " 
shouted  the  grandfather,  leaning  on  his  two 
canes  at  the  end  of  the  barn.  "  Come,  step 
lively,  an'  remember  you  ain't  got  none  too 
much  time,  an'  the  boat  ain't  goin'  to  wait  a 
minute  for  nobody." 

"  Ma'am  Stover  ?  "  repeated  the  boy,  with 
a  frown.  He  and  his  sister  knew  only  too 
well  the  pasture  path  between  the  two  houses. 
Ma'am  Stover  was  a  bedridden  woman-,  who 
had  seen  much  trouble,  —  a  town  charge  in 
her  old  age.  Her  neighbors  gave  to  her 
generously  out  of  their  own  slender  stores. 
Yet  with  all  this  poverty  and  dependence, 
she  held  firm  sway  over  the  customs  and 
opinions  of  her  acquaintance,  from  the  un 
easy  bed  where  she  lay  year  in  and  year  out, 
watching  the  far  sea  line  beyond  a  pasture 
slope. 

The  young  people  walked  fast,  sometimes 
running  a  little  way,  light-footed,  the  boy 


BY  THE  MORN-ING   BOAT.  211 

going  ahead,  and  burst  into  their  neighbor's 
room  out  of  breath. 

She  was  calm  and  critical,  and  their  ex 
citement  had  a  sudden  chill. 

"  So  the  great  day 's  come  at  last,  'Li- 
sha  ?  "  she  asked  ;  at  which  'Lisha  was  con 
scious  of  unnecessary  aggravation. 

"  I  don't  know  's  it 's  much  of  a  day  —  to 
anybody  but  me,"  he  added,  discovering  a 
twinkle  in  her  black  eyes  that  was  more 
sympathetic  than  usual.  "  I  expected  to 
stop  an'  see  you  last  night ;  but  I  had  to  go 
round  and  see  all  our  folks,  and  when  I  got 
back  't  was  late  and  the  tide  was  down,  an' 
I  knew  that  grandsir  could  n't  git  the  boat 
up  all  alone  to  our  lower  landin'." 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  forgit  you,  but  I  thought 
p'r'aps  you  might  forgit  me,  an'  I  'm  goin' 
to  give  ye  somethin'.  'T  is  for  your  folks' 
sake ;  I  want  ye  to  tell  'em  so.  I  don't 
want  ye  never  to  part  with  it,  even  if  it  fails 
to  work  and  you  git  proud  an'  want  a  new 
one.  It 's  been  a  sight  o'  company  to  me." 
She  reached  up,  with  a  flush  on  her  wrinkled 
cheeks  and  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  took  a 
worn  old  silver  watch  from  its  nail,  and 
handed  it,  with  a  last  look  at  its  white  face 
and  large  gold  hands,  to  the  startled  boy. 


212  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

"Oh,  I  can't  take  it  from  ye,  Ma'am 
Stover.  I  'm  just  as  much  obliged  to  you," 
he  faltered. 

"There,  go  now,  dear,  go  right  along," 
said  the  old  woman,  turning  quickly  away. 
"  Be  a  good  boy  for  your  folks'  sake.  If  so 
be  that  I  'm  here  when  you  come  home,  you 
can  let  me  see  how  well  you  've  kep'  it." 

The  boy  and  girl  went  softly  out,  leaving 
the  door  wide  open,  as  Ma'am  Stover  liked 
to  have  it  in  summer  weather,  her  windows 
being  small  and  few.  There  were  neighbors 
near  enough  to  come  and  shut  it,  if  a  heavy 
shower  blew  up.  Sometimes  the  song  spar 
rows  and  whippoorwills  came  hopping  in 
about  the  little  bare  room. 

"  I  felt,  kind  of  'shamed  to  carry  off  her 
watch,"  protested  Elisha,  with  a  radiant  face 
that  belied  his  honest  words. 

"  Put  it  on,"  said  proud  little  Lydia,  trot 
ting  alongside;  and  he  hooked  the  bright 
steel  chain  into  his  buttonhole,  and  looked 
down  to  see  how  it  shone  across  his  waist 
coat.  None  of  his  friends  had  so  fine  a 
watch ;  even  his  grandfather's  was  so  poor 
a  timekeeper  that  it  was  rarely  worn  except 
as  a  decoration  on  Sundays  or  at  a  funeral. 
They  hurried  home.  Ma'am  Stover,  lying 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  213 

in  her  bed,  could  see  the  two  slight  figures 
nearly  all  the  way  on  the  pasture  path ;  flit 
ting  along  in  their  joyful  haste. 

It  was  disappointing  that  the  mother  and 
grandfather  had  so  little  to  say  about  the 
watch.  In  fact,  Elisha's  grandfather  only 
said  "  Pore  creatur' "  once  or  twice,  and 
turned  away,  rubbing  his  eyes  with  the  back 
of  his  hand.  If  Ma'am  Stover  had  chosen 
to  give  so  rich  a  gift,  to  know  the  joy  of 
such  generosity,  nobody  had  a  right  to  pro 
test.  Yet  nobody  knew  how  much  the  poor 
wakeful  soul  would  miss  the  only  one  of 
her  meagre  possessions  that  seemed  alive 
and  companionable  in  lonely  hours.  Some 
body  had  said  once  that  there  were  chairs 
that  went  about  on  wheels,  made  on  purpose 
for  crippled  persons  like  Ma'am  Stover ; 
and  Elisha's  heart  was  instantly  filled  with 
delight  at  the  remembrance.  Perhaps  be 
fore  long,  if  he  could  save  some  money  and 
get  ahead,  he  would  buy  one  of  those  chairs 
and  send  it  down  from  Boston  ;  and  a  new 
sense  of  power  filled  his  honest  heart.  He 
had  dreamed  a  great  many  dreams  already 
of  what  he  meant  to  do  with  all  his  money, 
when  he  came  home  rich  and  a  person  of 
consequence,  in  summer  vacations. 


214  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

The  large  leather  valise  was  soon  packed, 
and  its  owner  carried  it  out  to  the  roadside, 
and  put  his  last  winter's  overcoat  and  a  great 
new  umbrella  beside  it,  so  as  to  be  ready 
when  John  Sykes  came  with  the  wagon.  He 
was  more  and  more  anxious  to  be  gone,  and 
felt  no  sense  of  his  old  identification  with 
the  home  interests.  His  mother  said  sadly 
that  he  would  be  gone  full  soon  enough, 
when  he  joined  his  grandfather  in  accusing 
Mr.  Sykes  of  keeping  them  waiting  forever 
and  making  him  miss  the  boat.  There  were 
three  rough  roundabout  miles  to  be  traveled 
to  the  steamer  landing,  and  the  Sykes  horses 
were  known  to  be  slow.  But  at  last  the 
team  came  nodding  in  sight  over  a  steep 
hill  in  the  road. 

Then  the  moment  of  parting  had  come, 
the  moment  toward  which  all  the  long  late 
winter  and  early  summer  had  looked.  The 
boy  was  leaving  his  plain  little  home  for  the 
great  adventure  of  his  life's  fortunes.  Until 
then  he  had  been  the  charge  and  anxiety  of 
his  elders,  and  under  their  rule  and  advice. 
Now  he  was  free  to  choose;  his  was  the 
power  of  direction,  his  the  responsibility; 
for  in  the  world  one  must  be  ranked  by  his 
own  character  and  ability,  and  doomed  by 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  215 

his  own  failures.  The  boy  lifted  his  burden 
lightly,  and  turned  with  an  eager  smile  to 
say  farewell.  But  the  old  people  and  little 
Lydia  were  speechless  with  grief ;  they  could 
not  bear  to  part  with  the  pride  and  hope  and 
boyish  strength,  that  were  all  their  slender 
joy.  The  worn-out  old  man,  the  anxious 
woman  who  had  been  beaten  and  buffeted 
by  the  waves  of  poverty  and  sorrow,  the 
little  sister  with  her  dreaming  heart,  stood 
at  the  bars  and  hungrily  watched  him  go 
away.  They  feared  success  for  him  almost 
as  much  as  failure.  The  world  was  before 
him  now,  with  its  treasures  and  pleasures, 
but  with  those  inevitable  disappointments 
and  losses  which  old  people  know  and  fear ; 
those  sorrows  of  incapacity  and  lack  of 
judgment  which  young  hearts  go  out  to  meet 
without  foreboding.  It  was  a  world  of  love 
and  favor  to  which  little  Lydia's  brother  had 
gone ;  but  who  would  know  her  fairy  prince, 
in  that  disguise  of  a  country  boy's  bashful- 
ness  and  humble  raiment  from  the  cheap 
counter  of  a  country  store  ?  The  household 
stood  rapt  and  silent  until  the  farm  wagon 
had  made  its  last  rise  on  the  hilly  road  and 
disappeared. 

"  Well,  he  's  left  us  now,"  said  the  sor- 


216  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

rowf ill,  hopeful  old  grandfather.  "  I  expect 
I  've  got  to  turn  to  an'  be  a  boy  again  my 
self.  I  feel  to  hope  'Lisha  '11  do  as  well  as 
we  covet  for  him.  I  seem  to  take  it  in,  all 
my  father  felt  when  he  let  me  go  off  to  sea. 
He  stood  where  I  'm  standin'  now,  an'  I  was 
ju-st  as  triflin'  as  pore  'Lisha,  and  felt  full  as 
big  as  a  man.  But  Lord !  how  I  give  up 
when  it  come  night,  an'  I  took  it  in  I  was 
gone  from  home !  " 

"There,  don't  ye,  father,"  said  the  pale 
mother  gently.  She  was,  after  all,  the 
stronger  of  the  two.  "  'Lisha  's  good  an' 
honest-hearted.  You  '11  feel  real  proud  a 
year  from  now,  when  he  gits  back.  I  'm  so 
glad  he  's  got  his  watch  to  carry,  —  he  did 
feel  so  grand.  I  expect  them  poor  hens  is 
sufferin' ;  nobody 's  thought  on  'em  this 
livin'  mornin'.  You  'd  better  step  an'  feed 
'em  right  away,  sir."  She  could  hardly 
speak  for  sorrow  and  excitement,  but  the 
old  man  was  diverted  at  once,  and  hobbled 
away  with  cheerful  importance  on  his  two 
canes.  Then  she  looked  round  at  the  poor, 
stony  little  farm  almost  angrily.  "  He  'd  no 
natural  turn  for  the  sea,  'Lisha  had  n't ;  but 
I  might  have  kept  him  with  me  if  the  land 
was  good  for  anything." 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  217 

Elisha  felt  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream,  now 
that  his  great  adventure  was  begun.  He 
answered  John  Sykes's  questions  mechani 
cally,  and  his  head  was  a  little  dull  and 
dazed.  Then  he  began  to  fear  that  the  slow 
plodding  of  the  farm  horses  would  make  him 
too  late  for  the  steamboat,  and  with  sudden 
satisfaction  pulled  out  the  great  watch  to  see 
if  there  were  still  time  enough  to  get  to  the 
landing.  He  was  filled  with  remorse  be 
cause  it  was  impossible  to  remember  whether 
he  had  thanked  Ma'am  Stover  for  her  gift. 
It  seemed  like  a  thing  of  life  and  conscious 
ness  as  he  pushed  it  back  into  his  tight 
pocket.'  John  Sykes  looked  at  him  curiously. 
"  Why,  that 's  old  Ma'am  Stover's  timepiece, 
ain't  it  ?  Lend  it  to  ye,  did  she  ?  " 

"  Gave  it  to  me,"  answered  Elisha  proudly. 

"  You  be  careful  of  that  watch,"  said  the 
driver  soberly ;  and  Elisha  nodded. 

"  Well,  good-day  to  ye ;  be  a  stiddy  lad," 
advised  John  Sykes,  a  few  minutes  afterward. 
"  Don't  start  in  too  smart  an'  scare  'm  up  to 
Boston.  Pride  an'  ambition  was  the  down 
fall  o'  old  Cole's  dog.  There,  sonny,  the 
bo't  ain't  nowheres  in  sight,  for  all  your 
fidgetin'!" 

They  both  smiled  broadly  at  the  humor- 


218  ST  TEE  MORNING  BOAT. 

ous  warning,  and  as  the  old  wagon  rattled 
away,  Elisha  stood  a  moment  looking  after 
it  ;  then  he  went  down  to  the  wharf  by 
winding  ways  among  piles  of  decayed  tim 
ber  and  disused  lobster-pots.  A  small  group 
of  travelers  and  spectators  had  already  as 
sembled,  and  they  stared  at  him  in  a  way 
that  made  him  feel  separated  from  his  kind, 
though  some  of  them  had  come  to  see  him  de 
part.  One  unenlightened  acquaintance  in 
quired  if  Elisha  were  expecting  friends  by 
that  morning's  boat ;  and  when  he  explained 
that  he  was  going  away  himself,  asked 
kindly  whether  it  was  to  be  as  far  as  Bath. 
Elisha  mentioned  the  word  "  Boston  "  with 
scorn  and  compassion,  but  he  did  not  feel 
like  discussing  his  brilliant  prospects  now, 
as  he  had  been  more  than  ready  to  do  the 
week  before.  Just  then  a  deaf  old  woman 
asked  for  the  time  of  day.  She  sat  next 
him  on  the  battered  bench. 

"  Be  you  going  up  to  Bath,  dear  ?  "  she 
demanded  suddenly ;  and  he  said  yes. 
"  Guess  I  '11  stick  to  you,  then,  fur 's  you 
go ;  't  is  kind  o'  blind  in  them  big  places." 
Elisha  faintly  nodded  a  meek  but  grudging 
assent ;  then,  after  a  few  moments,  he  boldly 
rose,  tall  umbrella  in  hand,  and  joined  the 


BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT.  219 

talkative  company  of  old  and  young  men  at 
the  other  side  of  the  wharf.  They  proceeded 
to  make  very  light  of  a  person's  going  to 
Boston  to  enter  upon  his  business  career ; 
but,  after  all,  their  thoughts  were  those  of 
mingled  respect  and  envy.  Most  of  them 
had  seen  Boston,  but  no  one  save  Elisha 
was  going  there  that  day  to  stay  for  a  whole 
year.  It  made  him  feel  like  a  city  man. 

The  steamer  whistled  loud  and  hoarse  be 
fore  she  came  in  sight,  but  presently  the 
gay  flags  showed  close  by  above  the  pointed 
spruces.  Then  she  came  jarring  against  the 
wharf,  and  the  instant  bustle  and  hurry,  the 
strange  faces  of  the  passengers,  and  the  loud 
rattle  of  freight  going  on  board,  were  as  con 
fusing  and  exciting  as  if  a  small  piece  of 
Boston  itself  had  been  dropped  into  that 
quiet  cove. 

The  people  on  the  wharf  shouted  cheerful 
good-byes,  to  which  the  young  traveler  re 
sponded  ;  then  he  seated  himself  well  astern 
to  enjoy  the  views,  and  felt  as  if  he  had 
made  a  thousand  journeys.  He  bought  a 
newspaper,  and  began  to  read  it  with  much 
pride  and  a  beating  heart.  The  little  old 
woman  came  and  sat  beside  him,  and  talked 
straight  on  whether  he  listened  or  not,  until 


220  BY  THE  MORNING  BOAT. 

he  was  afraid  of  what  the  other  passengers 
might  think,  but  nobody  looked  that  way, 
and  he  could  not  find  anything  in  the  paper 
that  he  cared  to  read.  Alone,  but  unfettered 
and  aflame  with  courage  ;  to  himself  he  was 
not  the  boy  who  went  away,  but  the  proud 
man  who  one  day  would  be  coming  home. 

"  Goin'  to  Boston,  be  ye  ?  "  asked  the  old 
lady  for  the  third  time ;  and  it  was  still  a 
pleasure  to  say  yes,  when  the  boat  swung 
round,  and  there,  far  away  on  its  gray  and 
green  pasture  slope,  with  the  dark  ever 
greens  standing  back,  were  the  low  gray 
house,  and  the  little  square  barn,  and  the 
lines  of  fence  that  shut  in  his  home.  He 
strained  his  eyes  to  see  if  any  one  were 
watching  from  the  door.  He  had  almost 
forgotten  that  they  could  see  him  still.  He 
sprang  to  the  boat's  side :  yes,  his  mother 
remembered;  there  was  something  white 
waving  from  the  doorway.  The  whole  land 
scape  faded  from  his  eyes  except  that  far 
away  gray  house ;  his  heart  leaped  back 
with  love  and  longing ;  he  gazed  and  gazed, 
until  a  height  of  green  forest  came  between 
and  shut  the  picture  out.  Then  the  coun 
try  boy  went  on  alone  to  make  his  way  in 
the  wide  world. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
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